


Shallow Water

by JLMonroe1234



Category: Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, Major Character Undeath, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Sort of major character death but not really, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 09:26:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19059832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JLMonroe1234/pseuds/JLMonroe1234
Summary: Peter wakes up underwater, disoriented and confused.Peter has a neck covered in bruises, and he can’t remember how he got them.Tony sees someone that looks like Peter on his balcony and almost blows them to smithereens.Tony sees the kid he thought he lost, and is thrown into a mental spiral of “How, why, what if?”Peter’s been gone for a year, but he doesn’t know that.Tony’s overjoyed that the kid is back, alive and well.Only, Peter isn’t quite alive.Tony doesn’t know that.Peter doesn’t either.*SLOW UPDATES*





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the book Shallow Graves, written by Kali Wallace.
> 
>  
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: This work is an original by JLMonroe1234 and has been posted STRICTLY to AO3. If you see it duplicated on any other platforms, please let me know so appropriate action can be taken. Thank you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by the absolutely wonderful Alexandra926.

Peter was used to Queens in June. It was hot, sometimes blisteringly so. New York’s own beautiful cityscape was also its summertime demise, skyscrapers and crunched-together brownstones often blocking vital breezes from entering the heart of town. The asphalt absorbed and radiated heat like nothing else, and recently-cleaned windows blinded residents on their daily commutes.

It was nothing new to him. Peter had learned to find the little bits of pleasure within summer in the city; fresh flower stands, ice cream carts, time off school. Frequent trips to Delmar’s for candy and sodas. Subway trips to his favorite smoothie place in Hell’s Kitchen if he really needed to waste some time.

Swimming wasn’t usually in the routine. His apartment building’s pool had been closed for years, whether because of lazy management or mechanical issues, he didn’t know. Public swimming pools in the city more or less didn’t exist, and finding someone with enough money to have an indoor one was a rarity. Even Mr. Stark had scoffed when Peter asked if he had one in the tower.

“This may be a nice building, kid, but I don’t need a glorified bathtub in my basement to make it so. If I wanna swim, I’ll fly somewhere.”

So, one could only imagine Peter’s surprise when he awoke to a bitter taste filling his mouth, and the realization that the  _ brisk air  _ he felt was indeed, not air, but water.

He  _ definitely  _ didn’t swim in any of the naturally occurring bodies of water around New York. He wasn’t sure that the fish  _ living  _ in that water wanted to be swimming in it.

Murky water was all around him, turning his movements lethargic. An unknown weight tugged heavily on his ankles, his folded and wrinkled pant legs allowing something sharp to scratch the exposed skin of his calves.

No. The space around him was tinted with shades of bright red and deep blue. Peter was in his suit, minus the mask.

Nothing within his line of sight was clear. Water clouded his vision and stung his open eyes, making finding the source of his entrapment that much harder.

Peter picked at his leg restraints, flinching when the tips of his fingers tore on solid stone. A few bubbles escaped from his mouth, and he quickly purses his lips before he lost any more necessary air. He could already feel the weight of his limited air supply pressing against his lungs, burning his esophagus.

A shake of his right ankle told him whatever was weighing him down wouldn’t be easy to remove. Each leg was trapped up to the middle of his calf, the extremities seemingly trapped within some sort of mold or solid structure.

_ Oh my god, seriously? Someone concrete-handcuffed me! Or, well, foot-cuffed, I guess. _

Peter attempted to slide his fingers between the concrete and his leg with the intention of prying it off, but there was little-to-no wiggle room within for his fingers to maneuver. Even with his enhanced strength, his mobility was severely limited under water. He’d have to use another solid object to bust the concrete.

He scanned his surroundings, the vague shapes of nearby objects taking form as he focused. Beer bottles, a shoe (maybe; It also looked like a small dog, but Peter was really really hoping he was wrong about that one). The lining of his lungs stung as he searched for something, anything, that he could use to free himself. After several agonizing seconds he spotted a moderately sized river stone about a foot away from him.

Using his last reserves of air and energy, Peter bent forward as far as his restrained lower half would allow and curled his fingers around the stone. He didn’t hesitate before slamming it into the concrete around his right leg, sparks of joy erupting within him as chunks of it crumbled away and sunk to the riverbed.

Right leg freed, he immediately moved to his left.

Peter had no idea how long it took to completely free himself. Whoever had encased his feet in concrete really didn’t want him getting out, apparently, because it was several inches deep on all sides and came up high enough to just about touch his knees. It was as if someone had dropped his feet in buckets of quick-dry asphalt mix, let it dry, and tossed him into the river.

An entirely new kind of pain rattled Peter’s chest. Anguish flooded his veins.  _ That’s probably exactly what happened. Someone was trying to get rid of me, mobster-style.   _

_ How long have I been out? _

_ May must be so worried. _

Peter shoved the remaining chunks of concrete aside and began kicking for the surface. The riverbed disappeared from view and he continued kicking, lungs threatening to collapse from pressure. For a horrifying moment he couldn’t tell if he was heading in the right direction, the murky water around him throwing off his internal compass and disguising which way was up or down.

Deep within his fear-addled brain, Peter took the time to catalogue his physical condition. His lungs were undoubtedly empty, his chest seemingly sizzling with the lack of air. The pain wasn’t getting any worse, though, despite the fact that he’d definitely been in the water longer than was safe for the average person.

Whatever. Irrelevant. Weird, yes, but he’d figure that out once he was no longer beneath the surface.

A few more hard kicks and his face broke through the water. To say he was relieved was an understatement, the sunlight on his face, however dim, a warm welcome.

Peter did his best to work with the current and was eventually swept to the side.

And then immediately collided with a brick wall.

He was too busy coughing up lungfuls of water to verbalize the curses running through his head, his attention solely focused on breathing and keeping his hold on each brick as he climbed.

Peter could have kissed the ground when he hit it, not caring one bit when the concrete left indentions in his cheek as he pressed his face to it.

His eyes were closed, but despite his water-laden ears, Peter could hear footsteps approaching. Rubber soles scuffed by, slowing as they approached him.

He carefully opened one eye, catching the disgusted face of the jogger passing by. She looked him up and down, wrinkled her nose like something stank, and kept running.

Peter definitely felt deserving of her nose-wrinkle. His hair was dripping down onto his forehead and cheeks, and his suit was sopping wet-

_ His suit. _

He’d thrown himself onto a public walking path. He was in his suit, with no mask.

An uneasy energy surged through Peter’s limbs and he scuttled on the walkway, trying his best to control his gangly limbs. He must not have moved in a while; his muscles felt tense and foreign.

Once Peter gained enough composure to stand, he scanned his surroundings. The Hudson was spread out before him, the rising sun casting shadows on nearby buildings.

Just Peter’s luck. He crawled out of a river, and out of anywhere he could have landed, he’d ended up in Battery Park. Highly-populated area, buildings full of early-rising businessmen.

He needed to get out of the suit. His identity was at stake, not to mention the fact that he smelled like dead fish.

Peter sniffed his shoulder. Yea, that was definitely him.

But upon closer inspection, it wasn’t  _ just  _ him. The scent was heavy in the air, being carried on the wind. Peter turned back toward the river.

Spread out as far as he could see were hundreds, maybe thousands, of dead fish. Each one floated on the surface of the water, mouths agape and eyes unseeing.

_ I crawled out of that? _

Go. He needed to go.

But  _ where?  _ He couldn’t exactly hop on the subway to Queens and roll into his apartment like this. May would be furious. She hated when the rugs got wet.

What was nearby? All of his (two) friends were in Queens.

Manhattan.  _ Think, Peter. _

The tower.

The tower was close by. Close enough to walk to, at least. If he could swing, even better.

Peter began jogging gently, then broke into a run as he became impatient with his own pace. He aimed a hand at a nearby building, calculated his shot, and pressed the palm release of his web shooter.

Nothing. They were dead, probably ruined from long-term water exposure.

_ How long had Peter really been in the river? _

Running it was, then.

He did his best to stick to the shadows, climbing buildings and leaping from rooftop to rooftop when possible. He wanted to be quick, but not obvious. This city knew Spider-Man. He didn’t want to catch anyone’s attention when he didn’t have a mask and smelled like a seafood market.

Avengers Tower appeared in his sights, and Peter released a deep sigh of relief. The tight feeling in his chest from earlier had dissipated, but replaced itself with an odd numbness. He wasn’t feeling much of anything, really. Each expansion of his lungs brought no relief, no relaxation.

Like everything else he’d encountered this morning, he decided he’d think about it later. He’d have to cross one more street, then he could scale the tower and possibly get inside through Mr.Stark’s private balcony. Inconspicuous? No. But having people see him from a distance was better than making Mrs. Johnson, Stark Industries’ lobby receptionist, mad because he’d dripped river water inside the elevator.

The sun’s reflection off the tower was almost blinding, prompting Peter to climb most of the way with his eyes almost completely shut.

Tony’s balcony was at the penthouse level, so the climb took several minutes. Peter’s sore muscles were screaming once he arrived, and he immediately fell to his back once he was over the railing. He could distantly hear something that sounded sounded like alarms. Were they coming from inside the building? God, he hoped not. That would be loud. So loud. His head already hurt.

With a grunt, Peter stood and shuffled his way to the balcony doors. One knock, two knocks, three knocks, and he was too tired to stand any longer. Peter plopped down in front of the doors, chin resting on his hand, elbow propped on one of his bent knees. His eyes may have fluttered closed for a moment. He couldn’t remember. He knew he hadn’t fallen asleep, though, because he could smell Mr. Stark’s aftershave as he approached.

_ Hm. Mr. Stark. Yay. _

The balcony doors whirred open. The unmistakable sound of Iron Man’s repulsors charging filled the air, and Peter opened his eyes at last.

One of those repulsors was about six inches from his face.

Mr. Stark stood in front of Peter, arm extended and face twisted into one of rage, maybe even fear, if Peter was interpreting that look in his eyes correctly.

The hair around his temples was greyer than Peter had seen it recently. More salt and pepper. It made the billionaire look distinguished.

“Get the fuck off my balcony. I won’t ask again.”

* * *

“M-Mr. Stark?”

Stark impossibly shoved the gauntlet farther toward Peter’s nose, the blue of the repulsors shining in his eyes.

“Stop. Go. Now.”

“Please, sir, it’s me. W-why are you doing this?”

“Peter’s not here.”

“But I am! I-I’m  _ right here!” _

“Last warning. After that, you’re charbroiled.”

“The Winter Soldier killed your parents.”

Tony flinched as if he’d been hit. His repulsor arm lowered slightly. “Excuse me?”

“Bucky Barnes!” Peter, now down on his arms and legs, tried to scuttle backward out of the line of fire. Tony simply followed him, never taking his aim off of the kid.

“He’s the one that killed your parents. I know that b-because you told me one night when we were working in your lab.” Peter swallowed, his throat unbearably dry. He really needed a drink. Something that wasn’t river water. “I was t-there because we w-were fixing the hole I ripped in my suit. You know, the one on the butt. I was sitting on a fire escape and jumped off and it snagged and-“

“Stop! My god, just stop! Give me a second!” There was a look on Tony’s face that Peter had never seen. Tony was typically the picture of calm, of cool composure. He wasn’t sure what this was; the wrinkled brow, the watery eyes.

“Y-you’re  _ gone _ ,” Tony whined. “You’re gone. You can’t be here right now.”

“What? Mr. Stark, please. I’m here. It’s me.”

Peter winced when Tony dropped to his knees, seemingly not feeling their impact with the concrete of the balcony as he lowered himself to be eye-level with his intern.

“It’s you? It’s  _ really  _ you? You’re not some alien impersonating Peter?”

“No.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.”

“Favorite Star Wars movie?”

“All of them.”

“Opinion on that deli on 49th street I took you to once.”

“It was on 48th street. And I said the noodles in the chicken noodle soup looked too much like maggots.”

Peter once again found himself pinned in place, but this time it was between Tony’s arms.

“You’re here.  _ You’re here.  _ Oh my god. I’m so glad you’re home.”

Tony pushed Peter back by the shoulders and held him at arm’s length, frantic eyes searching for any sign of injury or immediate danger.

“ _Christ_ , Pete, what happened to you? Your suit is ruined.” He lifted Peter’s arms and observed the tears in the spandex on his arms, his torso, his legs. “Where the hell have you been? What happened? And when was the last time you showered? You smell like the Hudson.”

* * *

 

  
Tony allowed Peter a break in his interrogating for a shower.

“Feel free to stew in there for a little bit,” he’d said. “Maybe stir in some Epsom salts or something. Add some oils. Anything to help that smell, bud.”

After waking up underwater, the last thing Peter wanted to do was bathe in one of Tony’s ridiculously large jet-powered tubs.  

Most of the guest bathrooms had those fancy rain-simulating shower heads, though, and you can bet that Peter took the time to enjoy it. The hot water was a welcome relief, the heat helping to soothe his tired muscles.

He stepped through the fog from his shower to see that a note had been slipped under the bathroom door. The words were in Mr. Stark’s sharp, tilted lettering.

“ _ There’s some clothes outside the door. They’re mine, so they may be a little big. Sorry. -TS” _

Peter cracked the bathroom door open, swung his arm out, and scooped the neatly folded clothes into his hand. The outfit consisted of a Black Sabbath t-shirt, along with a surprisingly average pair of grey sweatpants.

The mirror was still fogged over from his shower, so Peter left the bathroom without checking his appearance. He didn’t care much about how he looked at the moment, if he was being honest with himself. He was just happy to be clean and warm and no longer smelling like fish.

Tony was sitting in the communal living room of the guest floor in a surprisingly not-relaxed position, back straight against the couch and eyes not really seeing whatever show he’d put on the screen. As soon as Peter walked in, he hopped to his feet.

“Good, you’re out. I’ve called your aunt.”

_ May. He missed May. _

“Awesome. Thank you.”

“I don’t think that woman has ever listened to me harder than she did during that phone call. I’ve just always gotten this feeling she wasn’t a huge fan of me- Peter, Jesus Christ. What  _ happened _ to you?”

“What? What do you mean?”

He didn’t think anything was wrong with him at the moment: He’s showered until his skin was raw, so there’s no way he still stank, and his clothes were Tony’s. What was the issue?

Tony approached, wide eyed, and gently raised his hand toward Peter’s neck. His fingers made delicate trails across the skin there, never pressing or scratching. Just touching, as if he were connecting a network of dots.

“Who did this to you, Peter?” Mr. Stark’s voice was dangerously soft. It set Peter on edge.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How do you not...Nevermind. Just come here.”

Stark led him to a decorative mirror down the hall, a large, sleek one with a silver frame that Peter had always liked. He remembered seeing it the first time he was allowed to stay in the Tower’s guest quarters, flabbergasted by its clarity and sheer size.

“Your neck, kid.”

Peter stepped forward until his toes touched the wall and gazed at his own reflection. Messy hair. Baggy band t-shirt. He looked a little pale, maybe, but nothing drastic enough to warrant concern.

But once he saw his neck, he understood why Stark had looked so concerned.

Circling his neck from front to back was a butterfly pattern of deep, black-purple bruises.

It looked as if...Well, it looked as if someone had choked him. Someone with big, meaty hands who had no qualms about holding back their true strength.

“I don’t-“ He turned to Tony, heart fluttering in his chest, “I don’t know how this happened.”

Peter’s healing factor could repair a moderate bone fracture in a week or two at most. Bruises usually faded overnight, sometimes within hours, if he’d eaten enough that day and his metabolism was really active. Why hadn’t these disappeared?

There was suddenly a gentle hand on Peter’s shoulder. Mr. Stark looked at him in the mirror. “Kid. I’m so, so happy you’re back. You don’t get it, I’d thought...You were gone  _ so long.  _ Where did you go? Do you remember anything?”

“Gone? I never left.”

Tony turned Peter around to face him. “Peter. You’re kidding, right?”

He shook his head.

“Ah, um. Okay. Okay, follow me.”

Tony turned and began briskly walking down the hallway, Peter close on his heels. Stark stopped abruptly in front of a doorway and Peter’s forehead slammed into his back.

It was just one of several empty guest bedrooms on this floor, typically occupied by assorted Avengers when they were in town.

“Do you recognize this room, Peter?”

The wall of windows, the sleek, dark wooden furniture. The navy blue bedspread. The closet in the corner, it’s doors now open to display a rack full of empty hangers.

The poster-sized blueprint of the Death Star hanging above the bed.

“Yea, you made this my room for when I visit and help in the lab. It looks emptier, though. Didn’t I have some  clothes in the closet?” Peter looked down at his baggy shirt, his too long sweatpants, and chuckled dryly. “I was surprised when you didn’t just give me some of my own clothes.”

Tony nodded. “Yeah. You had a few shirts, maybe some sweatpants here and there.” His nostrils flared as he breathed. He seemed to be composing himself for whatever was coming next. “I decided to empty the room after six months. After you’d been gone for six months, I mean, so I just gave you some of my own-“

Peter’s heart stilled in his chest.

“I  _ what?” _

“May and I decided emptying the room and putting the stuff in storage was best, but I couldn’t bear to take the Star Wars poster down. I knew how much you loved it.”

“Mr. Stark, what is this?”

“It was all too hard. I couldn’t just act like you’d never been here, I had to leave  _ some  _ remnant of you-“

“ _Mr. Stark_ ! What happened? What do you mean, after I’d been gone for six months?”

The distress, the sadness, the pain in Tony’s eyes. That new grey in his once all-dark hair. It all hinted at a disturbing revelation that Peter wasn’t sure he could handle. 

Peter’s heart began beating furiously in anticipation of Stark’s next words. 

“Kid, no one has seen you in over a year.” 

 

 

 


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story is going to turn out way angstier than I thought. I meant for there to be fluff, and I’m sure there will be some, but not as much as expected. My bad. 
> 
> Thanks for your awesome responses to the first chapter! Your comments and kudos are greatly appreciated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by Alexandra926, an absolute fiend at finding prepositions and catching the plentiful typos I produce from writing on my phone. You’re a legend, darling.

“I  _ what?” _

Nothing, absolutely nothing, about the situation was making sense.

“Mr. Stark, what are you talking about?”

“You disappeared last summer. We looked for you for ages. May involved the police. Hell, I had half the Avengers on your trail. You dropped off the face of the Earth.”

The fact that the  _ Avengers  _ had cared enough to look for him was shocking in itself, but he was going to have to tuck his surprise aside for another time. Right now he was focused on the fact that according to Mr. Stark, he was as good as dead to most of the population.

“I don’t...I don’t remember.  _ Anything.”  _ Anything but falling. Dizziness. Something cold encasing his feet, something heavy on his throat-

Peter took a deep breath. “Yea, nothing.”

Suddenly, Tony was hugging Peter, arms wrapped snugly around him. Stark squeezed harder, one of his hands finding its way to the back of Peter’s neck. “ _ God,  _ kid. It’s so good to see you.”

Peter had seen more affection from his mentor in the last hour than he had in the last year, the repulsor incident on the balcony notwithstanding.

“Yeah, yeah. Good to see you, too, Mr. Stark.”

Tony pulled back quickly and straightened his blazer, evidently trying his best to compose himself. He ran a hand over his carefully styled hair, brushing down imaginary flyaways.

“Your aunt will be here soon. But in the meantime, I called Banner to check you out, so we should head to the Medbay-“

“Banner?  _ Bruce Banner?  _ Small-dude-who-turns-green-and-huge-when-he’s-mad-because-of-gamma-radiation  _ Bruce Banner?” _

Tony huffed. “That’s the one. I’d forgotten you’ve never met him. I just figured that with how many times you’ve been to the tower, you guys would have crossed paths by now.”

Peter shook his head. No, he and Banner had never met. As far as Peter knew, Banner was out of the country helping with basic medical care in third-world countries. Peter had never understood that, because Banner had a PhD, several of them actually, but he wasn’t an MD, so-

“He’s out of the country or something, right? Africa, maybe?”

Tony gave him a sorry smile.

“I guess not. That-that must have been months ago. I guess my info is a little outdated.”

Stark didn’t look pleased, but he nodded to confirm Peter’s suspicions. “He’s been back in the states for a few months. Came back when...You know, when everything went down.”

“When you all decided I’d kicked the bucket.” The bluntness of his own words shocked him. A spark of resentment lit within his chest. He’d been gone that long? How much life had he really missed in his absence?

Tony said that they’d looked for him, that they hadn't pronounced him dead until about a year after he went missing in the first place.

Mr. Stark said that he had called in the Avengers! The  _ freaking Avengers!  _ Not to mention the NYPD, who were respectable in their own right. With the combined strengths of those two forces, how had they not found him sooner?

Immediately after Peter had finished his thought, he felt foolish. Tony called the Avengers for him. Searched high and low for a year. He should be nothing but grateful that someone cared so much about him that they’d go to those lengths.

But the anger was still there, deep within him, burrowing beneath his insides. Peter wasn’t sure if it would ever dissipate.

“The Avengers- Do they know? About me, I mean.”

“No. I had them looking for your  _ friend, _ but by extension, they were looking for you.”

“I’m not following.”

They’d arrived at the Medbay. The doors were open, the area not currently occupied on account of the fact that apparently, none of the Avengers but Tony and Bruce were in the building.

Tony patted one of the medical beds, and Peter hopped onto the papery mattress.

“Well, when Peter Parker disappeared, Spider-Man did as well.”

Oh.  _ Oh. _

_ " _ They know what you do, how you help people. All I had to do was ask them to stark sticking their noses into people's business, to ask a few questions.”

Peter hadn’t even thought about that fact that with  _ his  _ disappearance came Spider-Man’s as well. Spider-Man has effectively dropped off the face of the Earth for the last year.

He had woken up in his suit. At the bottom of a river, yes, but in his suit.

Whatever caused his disappearance must have had to do with Spider-Man.

Hopefully the people of New York had thought that he had died, too. Peter didn’t know how he would deal with it if they thought he had abandoned them.

“Hello. Hi. Sorry it took so long, I was across town, and…”

Bruce Banner had entered the room, not making eye contact with either Peter or Tony directly and heading directly to a small rolling cart by another one of the Medbay beds. He grabbed it and hurriedly pushed it next to Peter’s, shoving a small stool into place next to it with his foot.

“Peter. Hi. Bruce Banner.”

It took Peter several seconds to shake the doctor’s extended hand. He was too busy ogling.

Banner looked concerned. “Is he, uh,”

Tony chuckled. “That’s not fear. Petey here is a little star-struck. Give him a second.”

Peter took a few deep breaths, calmed his racing heart. Now was not the time to embarrass himself.

“D-Doctor Banner. Nice to meet you.”

Banner pulled a pulse monitor off of the cart and clipped it to Peter’s finger. “Nice to meet you, too.” He looked to the cart’s monitor, waiting for Peter’s stats to appear. “Can you tell me what happened, Peter?”

“No.”

Bruce tapper the monitor with his finger. Peter’s pulse rate was showing as a fat zero beats per minute.

“No?”

“I don’t really remember what happened.”

The heart monitor beeped once, twice, then stopped again.

“You don’t? There’s nothing you can recall?”

Three blips on the monitor. Then nothing.

“No.”

_ It was windy and dark. There were voices. _

The monitor went wild. Peter took a breath. The reading went back to zero.  

Banner removed the finger clip and pulled a stethoscope out of another cart drawer. “It’s on the fritz. Looks like we’re doing this old school.”

Bruce tugged on the edge of Peter’s shirt. “May I?”

Peter nodded, and Banner put the diaphragm of the stethoscope beneath his shirt and above his sternum.

“Deep breath for me, on three. One, two, three.”

The doctor squinted, then moved the stethoscope. “Again for me. One, two, three.”

“What’s wrong?” Tony asked, seeing something in Banner’s face that Peter hadn’t noticed. He was too busy thinking about darkness, and wind, and water-

“I don’t...I don’t hear anything. I mean, I do, but I don’t.”

“You’re going to have to clarify that one, Doc B.”

The stethoscope was cold against Peter’s chest. “Peter, take a very deep breath, hold it for three seconds, and then let it out, slowly.”

Peter shut his eyes and concentrated on Banner’s words, trying to calm the rushing blood in his head. He tuned into his senses, focusing solely on using his enhanced hearing to find out what was going on within his own body.

He’d been trying to repress everything since waking up in the river. The sounds, the smells; it had all been overwhelming. On a good day, it took moderate effort to keep everything under control. A day like today, full of confusion, panic, and disorientation, required much more focus.

Peter released the breath, and his heart skipped a few beats. It slowed as his lungs deflated.

Then disappeared altogether.

He kept listening, kept his enhanced hearing tuned to his own physiology, for several more seconds. His heart had gone undeniably silent.

“W-What is this?” He asked frantically. “What’s happening?”

Bruce removed the stethoscope from his own ears and handed it to Stark. “Listen to this. Tell me I’m not crazy.”

They traded places, Tony moving to the stool and Bruce standing beside the bed. He chewed his thumbnail as he watched Tony position the stethoscope.

“I don’t hear anything?” The statement sounded more like a question, Stark’s tone unsteady.

“Exactly! No matter where I put it, I can’t hear anything!”

“ _ Someone  _ please tell me what’s happening!”

“There!” Tony flinched and ended up sending the rolling stool backward a few inches. “I heard it! But it’s already gone again, I don’t-“

Bruce stepped forward and placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Peter, I need you to think about something, well, emotionally difficult. Something that sets you on edge.”

“O-okay.”

Wind. Darkness. Water. Hands-

“There it was again!” Tony exclaimed. “I think it tapers off once he calms down.”

Bruce put two fingers to Peter’s neck. “How’s that  _ possible,  _ though? When I actually heard his heart, it was unreasonably slow, which is concerning in itself. But for it to  _ stop  _ for long periods of time? By definition, the kid dies every time his mood levels out.”

“So I’m dead,” Peter said flatly.

Bruce’s fingers trailed from Peter’s pulse point to his lower neck, presumably examining the bruises there. A chill ran down Peter’s spine at the contact, but he did his best to repress the shiver, not wanting the doctor to think it was because of him. He wasn’t scared of Bruce Banner or what he was capable of. Many people were, but Peter just couldn’t find any fear in his heart toward the man. More than anything else, he felt sorry for him.

“I don’t know, I mean, you’re still breathing.”

Peter wasn’t sure how long it took him to break his cement restraints, to swim to the surface of the river. He had no idea how long he’d been down there, or why he hadn’t drowned. Considering what he’d spit out once he had reached shore, Peter had inhaled enough water to fill a small fish tank.

“Actually, I’m not sure I am.”

Tony’s eyebrows shot up. “Come again?”

“I, uh,” Peter chuckled nervously, knowing how outrageous his story was going to sound, “I woke up at the bottom of the Hudson.”

Neither Tony nor Bruce spoke. Both just stared at Peter, their eyes flickering from his bruised neck to his eyes, back and forth.

“And my feet were encased in cement.”

“They were  _ what?” _

Tony was up now. His hand wrapped around Peter’s bicep like a lifeline, like a breeze was going to enter the room and carry his kid away again, and there’d be nothing he could do to stop it.

“I had to find a rock and break it apart, and I don’t know how long it took me, but I had to have been down there longer than a normal person could have been. And when I came up, I didn’t even really feel out of breath-“

“Peter. Peter.  _ Slow down.  _ Just hold on a second, okay?” Bruce retrieved the cart with the heart monitor and reattached the finger clip to Peter’s hand.

“Peter, I want you to take a deep breath, let it out, and then, just not breathe again, I guess.”

“Should I just hold my breath?”

“Not exactly. Just let as much air out as you can, and then don’t inhale again.”

The heart monitor beeped gently. Peter inhaled deeply, then exhaled until he thought he’d start coughing. His eyes slid closed. The heart monitor stayed silent.

He eventually lost track of time, so lost in the rhythm of the colors dancing behind his eyelids and his own racing thoughts that he almost didn’t realize May had walked into the room.

He quickly came back to himself when her arms wrapped tightly around him. Her chin came to rest on his shoulder. She sniffed in Peter’s ear, and he realized she must have been crying.

“Peter.  _ Peter.  _ My boy.  _ My sweet boy. _ Oh my god.”

He simply hugged her back as she sobbed, his hands running along the soft sweater of uncle Ben’s that she always wore when she was upset, no matter the season. It was nice, the hug. The smell of May’s perfume and her hair tickling his nose was heart-wrenchingly familiar, and it filled Peter with a sense of contentment he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

“He didn’t take a single breath for four minutes. His blood oxygen level is at 3%.”

Bruce was leaning over Tony’s shoulder and whispering in his ear. May hadn’t made any indication that she’d heard him. Peter guessed he wasn’t meant to hear anything either, but sometimes he quite literally couldn’t control himself.

May pulled away and held Peter in front of her. She gasped when she noticed the marks on his neck. “Where have you been? What happened? We were all so worried.  _ I  _ was so worried. I thought you’d-“

Peter placed his hand over hers and squeezed. “But I didn’t. I’m here. I’m okay.”

Only one-third of that sentence was the truth. The other two-thirds, he really didn’t know. 

“Mrs. Parker, this is undoubtedly a grand reunion for you, and the last thing I want to do is pull you two apart. But do you think I could have a few more minutes alone with Peter? He’s been gone for quite a while. I’d like to make sure he’s in good health.”

May, acting as if she hadn’t realized Bruce was even in the room, nodded and wiped her tears on her sleeve. “Of course. I’m so sorry. I’ll be just outside,” she squeezed Peter’s hand, “if you need me.”

Peter nodded. “Thanks, May.” Now that he had her, he didn’t really want her to go. May was Peter’s security blanket. She’d always kept him grounded, filled whatever empty spaces he had within him after the death of his parents and Uncle Ben. At a time like this, when tensions were high and there was more he didn’t know than he  _ did  _ know, he would have liked to have her nearby.

“Alright, Peter. So here’s the deal.” Banner’s polite and caring face he’d used on May was gone, replaced by one of stern determination. “You didn’t inhale for four minutes. Two to three minutes without air is enough to cause irreversible brain damage in an average person. Your heart only beats a few times a minute, if that.”

“He should be a vegetable from the lack of oxygen,” Tony said.

Bruce nodded. “And dead from the lack of blood flow.”

Tony whistled. “We’ve all seen some weird shit. But this?”

Banner was shaking his head back and forth. “This shouldn’t be medically possible.”

“Do you think my healing factor has anything to do with it?” Peter asked, the question aimed at Tony.

Bruce was the one that answered. “I don’t think so.”

Tony smiled sheepishly. “I gave Banner the info you and I collected a few years back. You know, just in case.”

_ Just in case I was gravely injured, and he had to know how to fix me. _

“From the data I’ve studied, your factor is impressive, but it shouldn’t be able to reanimate a corpse.”

Bruce seemed to realize the insensitivity of his words once they left his mouth, and he stepped forward hurriedly. “Peter, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-“

“No, it’s okay.”  _ It wasn’t okay. “ _ I guess I really am dead, then.” 

_ Oh my god, I’m dead. _

Regret was etched deep in the lines of Bruce’s pity smile. “By most definitions of the word, yes.”

Peter had spent every second since he became Spider-Man trying to avoid that very fate. He had protected his identity, not just to protect his loved ones (which was his main motivation) but to protect Peter Parker. He typically hadn’t bitten off more than he could chew when it came to one-on-one fights; he had high hopes, but he knew his limits. He tended to every injury he received, always made sure to pay attention to his physical well-being.

It wasn’t enough. It hadn’t been enough, because he had managed to  _ die. _

_ I died. _

There were so many things running through Peter’s head, so many worries and fears and questions, but all he could do was blurt out, “Don’t tell May.”

“Kid. Isn’t this something she needs to know about?” Tony questioned. “You’re...you’re-“

Peter held up a hand. “Yea. I get it.”  _ I don’t get it.  _ “But telling her would only freak her out. I’m not sure she’d really understand.”  _ Hell, I don’t understand. _

“I think he’s right, Tony,” Bruce said, apologetically. “We need to keep this under wraps until we know what’s really going on.”

The pallor of Tony’s face matched the grey in his hair. “Alright. Fine. We won’t tell her. But for the record, she’s going to have our asses when she finds out something’s up.”

* * *

 

For the next several hours, May didn’t leave Peter’s side for more than a few minutes at a time. At one point, Peter asked if she had to go to work, and she’d scoffed like the idea was preposterous.

“I called in. This is way too important.  _ You’re  _ way too important.”

Peter was desperately glad to have her around, but every moment she was near him was just another moment for her to realize he wasn’t the same Peter that she’d lost a year ago. This one was paler. Breathed a lot less.

Couldn’t remember how he died.

_ But can I? _

Had a year-long memory gap.

_ But do I? _

Couldn’t decipher which brief, adrenaline-inducing images that flashed in the darkness of his blinks were legit, or which ones were productions of his own overactive imagination.

When Peter was very young, he had been quite the daydreamer. He’d spend entire class periods at school stuck within his own head, imagining anything from Iron Man showing up at his classroom door to take him to lunch, to dragons burning down the gymnasium. Most times the daydreams were pleasant, a colorful escape from a particularly boring math lesson or history lecture.

But sometimes his mind wandered just a bit too far, and he’d find himself picturing the death of his family, his friends. Imaginary tornados would rip through his apartment, packs of wild dogs would chase his uncle home from work. May and Ben were consulted on several occasions, the school guidance counselor continuously asking why Peter would break out in tears unprompted and at any given moment. They’d always had to explain that sometimes, he just dove a little too deep. That even in his waking hours, the nightmares still had him within their grip. They’d always attributed these daymares to past trauma, mainly the death of Peter’s parents.

He didn’t doubt that their passing was a factor, but he figured his creative instincts were also at play.

That was why he struggled so much now, had such a hard time deciphering what was real and what wasn’t. Were these current daymares just works of neurological fiction? Mental movies that he had made up to explain his necklace of bruises? Or did they tell the true story of how Peter had ended up the way he did, weighed down by concrete, stuck at the bottom of the Hudson?

“Peter, I think we need to tell the police.”

Peter wiggled away from his place at May’s side to get a better look at her face, the enormous couch they were sitting on suddenly seeming much smaller. The community living room’s TV was switched to the news. Tony was watching it with mild interest, more focused on the thermos of coffee in his hands than anything else. Bruce was off doing who knows what, probably examining blood samples and crunching Peter’s physiological numbers. Peter couldn’t care less; if the scientist could figure out what was going on with him, all the better.

“Tell them  _ what?” _

_ “ _ That you’re, you know…” She brushed a small piece of hair away from his eyes. “That we found you.”  

_ Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. _

Mr. Stark joined the conversation. “I don’t know if that’s a great idea. It’s seems a little premature.”

“Premature?” May asked incredulously. “He’s right here, sitting on your couch! He’s back! How is this premature?”

“Because,”  _ Because we don’t know if I’m really alive,  _ “I don’t know. Maybe we should just let him settle in before we get anything started.”

The volume of the TV rose of its own accord, something Tony had programmed FRIDAY to do a long time ago because he had trouble paying attention.

“I always miss the good stuff when I watch the news,” he’d said, “so now FRIDAY just blasts anything she deems important at top volume. A beautiful solution, no?”

A perky news reporter was on-screen, blonde hair teased perfectly and red lips pulled in a tight smile. Her eyebrows were raised, like she was trying to look interested, but also cool and collected.

“City authorities are baffled today as hundreds of New York residents step forward to report a large fish kill in local bodies of water.”

Peter’s lethargic heart slowed even more. Stopped, maybe. He willed it to continue beating as to not alert the aunt next to him to the absence of its sound.

“Environmentalists suspect tainted boat fuel or other sudden spikes in pollution, but have been unable to find a sure cause due to the vast variations in fish species and locations of the deaths. So far, the most carnage has been concentrated near Battery Park, just south of the Staten Island Ferry port.”

_ Almost exactly where I woke up this morning. _

“Fish are turning up in large groups in this area of the Hudson, so be warned, your afternoon strolls by the water may be smelling like five month old calamari for the time being.”

Suddenly there was a civilian next to the news anchor. She was more dolled-up now, clad in a dress and plenty of makeup, but Peter immediately recognized her as the jogger who had passed him in Battery Park earlier that morning.

The reporter glanced at the camera, then back to the jogger. “Madison Remming was one of the first witnesses of the horrific event, noticing the fish on her morning jog. Miss Remming, could you recount for us what exactly you saw?

Madison looked much too comfortable in front of a camera, her demeanor anything but nervous. “It was atrocious. The smell was  _ so  _ strong, like a Golden Corral dumpster after Lent. What’s funny, though, is that there were no fish when I left my apartment. You see, my place has a  _ perfect  _ view of the water, so I totally would have noticed a ton of dead fish everywhere. But they didn’t pop up until I was running through Battery. “

Peter breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t mentioned him. Hopefully she’d dismissed him as another homeless person simply using any public space for a quick nap, just another piece of NYC.

“I passed this soaking wet homeless guy in a funky outfit at one point and just assumed the smell had come from him, but I realized it was the river once I’d gotten several yards away and could still smell it.”

_ And there it is. Fate really loves kicking me while I’m down, doesn’t it? _

Tony was sitting up, his now-cold cup of coffee half-way on a coaster on the table in front of him. “Wet homeless guy in a funky outfit, huh? That’s peculiar.”


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by Alexandra926.

**New Message From Bruce Banner:** _Head_ _to_ _the_ _lab_. _Got_ _something_ _for_ _you_ _to_ _see_.

Tony tried his best to shield his watch from view, his palm over the screen in an effort to hide whatever text Banner had just sent.

Peter and May were just a few feet away, the two of them positioned at the other end of the living room couch. Both were tucked beneath an obscenely large blanket, a fuzzy blue one Pepper had gotten Tony when they’d moved into the tower.

“This place feels like a museum,” she’d said. “We’ve gotta spruce the place up. Make it feel more homey.”

Tony had scoffed. “White marble countertops and floor-to-ceiling windows aren’t  _ homey _ enough for you?”

Despite his original protests, Tony had used the blanket so much that the seams had begun to fray. Not that Peter seemed to mind. He held the cover against his left cheek, the other side of his face squished against May’s shoulder. Both were focused on whatever was playing on the TV, some sort of home remodel show, but Tony’s thoughts were elsewhere.

He couldn’t get a certain image of Peter out of his mind; the mental snapshot he’d taken of the boy when Tony had found him lying on the balcony earlier that morning.

He had been in his workshop when he’d gotten the alarm. FRIDAY had come over the loudspeaker, her pleasant voice simply stating “ _ Mr. Parker is waiting for you on the balcony, boss,”  _ as if her words held no weight. As if it were any other day of the week, and a spider-kid that had been missing for the last twelve months showing up at the tower was no big deal.

He’d simply slapped his smartwatch onto his wrist and sprinted to the penthouse, not taking the time to fully suit-up. He couldn’t even imagine what freak of nature could have tricked FRIDAY’s advanced identification systems into thinking a dead man had somehow scaled Tony’s tower, and was just chilling on his terrace.

Turns out, the “freak of nature”  _ was  _ Tony’s long-lost intern.

He hadn’t believed his own eyes, at first, had thought his grief-addled brain was playing tricks on him. How could Peter be here? Be  _ alive?  _ All evidence he’d collected within the last year, or the serious lack thereof, had pointed to the contrary.

Stark liked to think he’d handled the loss well. He had been doing everything in his power to help May: recruiting the Avengers, assisting the police investigation, explaining Spider-Man’s absence to the press. Not to mention the fact that for once in his life, he’d been taking care of  _ himself  _ in the midst of everything. Pepper had been the one that recommended therapy, but Tony had seen its benefits in just a few sessions. He’d always just mentioned his issues to Pepper or Rhodey in passing and called it a day. Healthy? Maybe not. But it had worked just fine the last decade. (No, it hadn’t.)

Tony had never realized how beneficial it was to talk to someone, how being able to openly share whatever twisted shit was rumbling around inside his skull could be so relieving. Having an unbiased sounding board for his ideas and concerns was truly a breath of fresh air.

His therapist had taught him how to stay calm. How to reign himself in when the weight of whatever mental baggage he was carrying around became too heavy. He had gotten pretty good at it, actually. After a few months his nightmares had lessened in frequency. The random moments of panic or dissociation had seemed to fade as well.

None of that meant Peter’s disappearance hurt any less.

Losing Peter had been like...well...he didn’t know. He’d never had to go through anything like losing Peter before. Sure, he’d lost his parents when he was fairly young, but that was a different situation entirely. An entirely different kind of grief. Back in those days, he'd mainly relied upon two people, his best friend and his mentor. Without those two, he'd have been flying blind. He counted himself lucky that only one of them had ended up trying to kill him and steal his company. 

He'd never had buddies to spare; not now, not then.

Peter’s disappearance had been less like flying blind and more like being the captain of an empty ship. Why was Tony sailing, if he had no one to sail with? Where were his passengers? His crew? It was as if he was stuck on the bridge, sailing straight into a storm with no navigation equipment for absolutely no reason.

Parker going missing hadn’t just been confusing. It had been empty, and dark, and messy, and more or less the reason Tony’s therapist had taught him breathing techniques to get through each day. Peter Parker’s absence had compressed his lungs, forced the air out of them in violent and quick succession.

Any lingering knowledge of said breathing techniques had flown out the window when Tony had seen Peter on the balcony. The little voice in his head had been leading him, full-heartedly insisting  _ This isn’t  _ our  _ Peter. Our Peter is dead. _

_ But is he?  _ Tony questioned.  _ Are we sure this couldn’t be him? _

It was that uncertainty that had landed Peter with a repulsor aimed at the center of his face, and a very ruffled Tony Stark at his feet.

Now, sitting so close to him on the sofa, Tony wasn’t sure how he could have thought it was anyone else. This felt like his Peter, even if the boy’s looks fell short in some places.

For example, the perfect butterfly of bruises wrapping around Peter’s neck. Those were definitely new. They were a bright indigo and stood out drastically against his pale skin. He also had these crazy dark circles under his eyes. Pete looked as if he hadn’t gotten a solid night’s sleep in ages.

Tony knew the implications of Peter coming to consciousness at the bottom of the Hudson. If he hadn’t been put there on purpose, cement handcuffed and out cold, how else could he have gotten there? Someone was responsible for all of this.

For potentially killing Spider-Man.

But  _ had  _ he been killed? He looked so alive, leaning against May’s shoulder. He had the same ruffled hair, the same light behind his eyes Stark rarely saw in most people. There must be a reason why he only breathes a few times a minute, a reason why his heart only beats when his emotions run rampant. A scientific explanation for all of it.

_ Right? _

That’s why Tony placed his hands on his knees and stood slowly from the couch. Maybe this text from Bruce meant that he’d found something within Peter’s blood samples. Tony would take anything, at this point, if it meant soothing his frazzled nerves.

“Where are you going?” Peter asked, momentarily peeling his eyes away from the television screen.

“Everyone pees, Peter.”

Peter chuckled and turned away. The natural light in the room made his skin appear almost translucent.

Tony hurried down the hall and to the elevator. When he walked into the lab, Bruce’s eye was firmly positioned over the ocular lens of a microscope.

“Tony, get a look at this.”

Bruce shoved his rolling chair away from the table to make room, Stark positioning himself over the microscope. “What am I looking at?”

Scattered splotches of purple fluoresced beneath the lens. Most of them were solid, abstract shapes, each with its own dark nucleus. Some of the cell membranes appeared stretched, nuclear blebbing evident in some, and full-scale membrane bursts evident in others. A select few seemed much less colored than the rest, their nuclei appearing faint in comparison to the others. These cells looked smaller, less mature. If Tony didn’t know any better, he’d have thought they were regressing.

“Peter’s cheek swab,” Bruce said, “I’ve never seen anything like it. Most of the cells are perfectly healthy, but these…” Bruce grabbed a remote off of his desk, then tapped a button on the microscope. Peter’s sample appeared on a monitor a few feet away.

Banner pointed at some of the warped cells that Tony had noticed previously. “Cells like these are typically seen in cancer cases.”

Tony was quickly becoming confused. “So, you’re saying he has cancer?”

“No, no. Hold on.” Bruce pressed another button on the remote, and a different microscope slide appeared on the screen. This sample was dyed pink opposed to purple, its cells different than the last group. Most of these were relatively circular, while some resembled crescent moons.

“And here. His blood samples. These cells here, these half-circle ones. They’re a sign of sickle-cell anemia. I know you’re smart,”

“No shit.”

“But I’m going to explain this simply. Red blood cells carry oxygen throughout the body using hemoglobin. Altered hemoglobin is responsible for sickling the cell. Less cell surface area means less oxygen gets carried around the body. People with sickle-cell typically feel a variety of symptoms; fatigue, swelling of the extremities, among other things.”

“I thought this explanation was going to be short.”

“Right. Yeah.” Bruce sat back in his chair, evidently trying to calm himself down. He was getting worked up over Peter’s lab results. It wasn’t anger; the Big Green Guy wasn’t going to make an appearance. It seemed more like exasperation. Like whatever sickle-shaped puzzle pieces he was trying to smash together just weren’t fitting. “I compared his new samples to his old ones. You know, the ones you collected a couple years back. There’s no sickling in the old samples.”

Stark had been able to follow the conversation up until now. He hoped this wouldn’t take much longer. He was old, but not old enough for Peter to believe he needed twenty minutes for a bathroom break. Hopefully May and  _ Love It or List It _ on HGTV would occupy him for the time being. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“His old red blood cells and cheek swabs were completely normal. I mean, beside the arachnid DNA scattered throughout his genome, but that’s a confusing topic for another time. Something about what happened to him, something that happened after Peter  _ died,  _ altered his cell anatomy drastically. The sickling of his cells should have caused complications. Instead, I think it’s actually  _ helping  _ him.”

Tony’s watch buzzed. He didn’t check it, just let it vibrate against his wrist.

“How’s that possible? How could having sickle-cell possibly be helpful to anyone?”

Bruce was standing now, shuffling through a stack of papers on the workbench. He yanked one from a teetering pile and handed it to Tony. Plastered across it were several different tables and lists of numbers, colored bar graphs and pie charts displaying information such as Peter’s blood-oxygen levels, blood pressure, and more.

“Sickled cells also die extremely fast, much faster than regular red blood cells, causing anemia. Here’s the kicker. From the looks of it, Peter’s aren’t following those same rules. The cells sickle and carry less oxygen, but they’re not causing the typical side effects that come with anemia. They’re just not requiring him to use and absorb as much oxygen as the average person.”

_ That  _ was quite a pill to swallow. Tony understood human biology, sure. He had enough of an anatomical understanding to get by. But  _ this? _ A genetic condition that Peter somehow obtained through  _ dying  _ was keeping him alive?

Was whatever this was, actually considered  _ living,  _ though?

“What-what about the cheek swab? Those didn’t look quite right, either. You mentioned they look like cancer cells.”

Bruce switched the monitor back to the first slide. Blobs of light and dark purple filled the screen once again. “Yeah. That. Generally, that would imply that the cells are replicating uncontrollably, right? But right now, instead of creating a tumor or metastasizing to other parts of the body, they’re just...dying. The cells grow too large or have any sort of mild deformity and its spontaneous apoptosis. It’s normal for the body to self-destruct cells that could be harmful, but Peter’s seems to be doing it at an exponential rate. That’s what happened to these cells here.” He motioned to the small, faded cells Tony had noticed before. “His body’s killing them off before they get a chance to become dangerous. But how are we supposed to know if those would have actually been harmful? By the looks of them, they hadn’t even matured enough to perform mitosis.”

Tony’s watch buzzed again. He tilted the digital face toward him.

 **New** **Message** **From**   **Peter** Parker _: Did you slip and fall in there, Mr. Stark? You’re missing Property Brothers!_

“Sum it up, Doc. That was a lot to digest. What are you saying?”

Bruce switched the monitor off and dropped the remote into the pocket of his lab coat opposed to the workbench. Tony knew he’d forget where it was, later. “Peter’s physiology is  _ so _ whacked out right now. Who knows what’s going to happen when he no longer needs to breathe at all _? _ Or if his body moves on from killing these rapidly appearing mutated cells and starts aiming for ones we  _ know  _ are healthy? I know he seems more or less alive, Tony. But from how things are looking, I’m not sure he’ll be that way much longer.”

Stark could feel his heartbeat in his toes.

“Whatever brought him back is going to end up killing him. Again.”

* * *

 

“Should I not use that bathroom for the rest of the day?” 

Peter’s eyes were on Tony when he walked into the room. He’d been well-distracted by May and the TV for awhile, but Tony’s absence hasn’t gone unnoticed. Nobody took a half hour to pee. Not to mention the fact that Stark would never have proclaimed something so personal to the room at-large. Going to the bathroom was for mere mortals, right at the top of the “No Way” list with things like eating raw vegetables and sweeping your own floor. Whatever he’d been doing hadn’t involved the bathroom.

“Are you kidding? I shit rainbows.”

Stark walked directly past the back of the couch and toward the bar cart across the room.

The bronze cart had been fully stocked for as long as Peter could remember. It wasn’t as if it was kept continuously replenished, though. From what he could tell, the amber liquids within the numerous fancy bottles and flasks never seemed to change levels. Some containers still wore their rubbery seals, the bottles never having been opened in the first place. The same could be said for the whiskey and martini glasses, their surfaces perfectly polished but their positions on the cart never changing. Peter wondered how many hundreds, maybe even thousands, of dollars worth of wasted alcohol was sitting on that cart.

Maybe the cart’s presence was purely sentimental. Peter knew that Mr. Stark had struggled with alcoholism periodically throughout his life. He may have kept the cart around as a reminder of what he’d overcome, how he didn’t need whatever was within those bottles. Worst case scenario, he’d never gotten rid of it so he’d have a bountiful supply of his preferred mind-numbing agent in the event of an emergency.

Either way, deep down, Peter had always wanted him to get rid of it. He felt that having it around in the first place was just too risky, too tempting. Wouldn’t it be easier to get rid of the issue entirely? Dump it all down the drain and forget that it had been around in the first place?

Maybe that’s why Stark seemed so strong, so collected. He faced the problem head-on. Developed a thick skin in defense of the metaphorical needle trying to snake its way into his veins.

May dozed, leaning on the armrest of the couch. Peter had a feeling that this was probably the most soundly she’d slept since he went missing. She’d always been restless when her mind was racing, taking long walks when she was stressed or cleaning the entire apartment in anticipation of major events. May Parker wasn’t a woman to sit and watch the world go by. If she wanted something, she worked for it. So how hard had she worked to get her nephew back?

Peter watched silently as Mr. Stark carefully selected a bottle, one with a blank label and a red wax seal. He either didn’t realize Peter was watching, or didn’t care, because he took his time peeling the wax away carefully with his forefinger and thumb. He poured two fingers of what Peter presumed was scotch (because he didn’t really know how to identify liquor, truthfully) into a glass so crystalline that it sparkled in the sunlight leaking through the windows.

Peter felt his lethargic heart beat twice, each pump of blood seeming to bounce around inside his skull. The sudden action of his circulatory system forced his lungs into action, his nostrils flaring with the effort of trying to hide the intensity of his exhales. With how little he’d been breathing in the last few hours, Peter had a feeling Stark would notice if he started huffing and puffing for no reason.

Mr. Stark obviously hadn’t gone to the bathroom. So, where  _ had  _ he gone? What about it had sent him spiraling quickly enough to warrant a drink?

Tony lifted the drink toward his face, but to Peter’s surprise, the rim of the glass passed his lips and rested just beneath his nose. His breath made ripples on the scotch’s surface.

“Always liked the smell of this stuff,” he said. “Used to be one of my favorites, back in the day.”

He continued holding the glass, but returned to his place on the couch. He let his head fall back, eyes trained on the ceiling. Tony obviously had no intention of drinking whatever he’d poured, seemingly finding comfort in its very presence. Peter almost scoffed; it was a stressed adult’s version of a teddy bear. A mental image of Tony with his arms wrapped around an Iron Man Build-A-Bear came into focus. It was hard imagining the man so vulnerable.

Tony’s watch buzzed, just as it had earlier. Peter wasn’t sure what Stark had done with his phone, but he evidently didn’t need it.

He tipped his wrist toward his face, pursing his lips at whatever was on the screen. In one swift motion, he unclamped the wristband and tossed the watch onto the coffee table.

“Had enough of that.” The hand around his scotch glass went white around the knuckles.

* * *

 

  
_ New Message From Bruce Banner (1/3): _

**_Did gel electrophoresis on some of the kid’s DNA. Sample prep was almost impossible, PCR barely gave me enough viable material to test. The sample I collected hours ago is already more degraded than the one you kept from a year ago. It’s fascinating._ **

_ New Message From Bruce Banner (⅔): _

**_Not in a good way, of course._ **

_ New message From Bruce Banner (3/3): _

**_But seriously. This decay rate is insane._ **

>   
>    
>    
> 


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by Alexandra926, an absolute angel.

Much of the day passed uneventfully, because Tony spent most of it trying to focus on Peter. Peter's reappearance had been nothing short of miraculous, and Tony would be an idiot to think otherwise. Of course he was going to appreciate and use the time he had with him. 

He didn’t know how much time the boy had left. 

Bruce’s research had been worse than bad. It was damning. It more or less proved that Peter’s current condition would only be in decline.

How was May Parker supposed to handle that? How was _Tony_ supposed to handle that? They’d just gotten the boy back! Peter had barely been home for a full day. He’d barely gotten to shower and relax for a little while before Bruce had discovered the heartwrenching evidence of _advanced physical decay_ in his cells. It was unbelievable and awful and terrible, and any time Tony thought about it for more than a few seconds, he had to shut his brain off entirely or else he thought he’d combust. 

He hadn’t told May. He hadn’t had a chance; she’d fallen asleep against Peter hours ago and stayed that way well into the evening. No one had the heart to wake her. She needed rest just as much. Maybe more than anyone else in the tower at the moment. 

Tony was surprised Peter himself hadn’t conked out already. At a glance, the pronounced dark circles under his eyes would make anyone think he hadn’t gotten a second of shuteye in several days. The pallor of his skin didn’t help, either. But he had yet to fall asleep; for a majority of the day, he simply allowed May to doze on his shoulder. 

Tony hadn’t left the couch much, either. He’d been so tense for the last year that simply relaxing for a while had proved to be something of a luxury. 

But he couldn’t ignore his stomach as it rumbled loudly enough that Peter picked up on it and gave him a goofy grin. Tony had missed that grin. Seeing it in person was much better than in his memories. “Hungry, Mr. Stark?” 

Tony chuckled. “I guess so.” He hadn’t realized until now that he hadn’t eaten all day. He’d skipped breakfast and worked in the lab until Peter showed up. Lunch hadn’t exactly been a priority, either, so he hadn’t stopped to order or make anything. 

“Damn, Pete. I’m not thinking. Are _you_ hungry?” How could that have slipped his mind? The kid woke up in a _river_ this morning and hadn’t even been given a decent meal. 

Peter shrugged. “I mean, I don’t really feel hungry.” 

“Seriously? Like, at all?” 

“Not really.” 

Tony stood from the couch and walked into the kitchen. “Well how about you try and get something down, huh? Might do you some good.” 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

Peter, as gently as possible, maneuvered himself out from beneath a still-sleeping May. She mumbled a little as he situated a pillow beneath her cheek to replace his shoulder, but she didn’t wake. 

Tony was staring into his mostly empty fridge. Peter probably wasn’t in the mood for miniature pickles or outdated lunch meat after not eating for an entire day. 

“Anything good?” Peter asked as he took a seat on a barstool. 

“Definitely not. We might have to order in. That okay?” 

Peter didn’t respond right away, so Tony turned to look at him. The kid was shifting in his seat and avoiding all eye contact. “Um, do you maybe think we could, I mean, I don’t know, go out for something? I’d kind of like to get out of the tower for a little while.” 

Tony was taken aback. He wanted to go out? He figured Parker would want to stay as close to the tower as possible. Reap the comforts of home. After all, he hadn’t slept in his own bed for a year. 

“I mean, I don’t see why not?” It was more of a question than an affirmation. 

“I just miss the city, I guess. I can’t exactly go out as Spider-Man at the moment, seeing as everyone thinks I’ve disappeared.” 

“Everyone thinks Peter Parker has disappeared, too.” 

Tony hadn’t meant to say it. Peter didn’t need to be reminded of everyone else he’d left behind. But it was too late now, and the boy looked as if he were beginning to spiral. 

“I c-completely forgot. Ned, MJ. I didn’t tell either of them I was back.” 

“That’s okay!” Tony had come off a little too enthusiastic, and Peter lifted an eyebrow. “Sorry. No. I meant that it’s okay that they don’t know yet. You’re just getting acquainted with being home. It can wait a little while.” 

Peter chuckled, but the laugh was flat. Mirthless. “You’re right. I’ve technically been dead for a year now, what’s a few more days?” 

Tony, being the masterful conversationalist and emotional support man that he was, shut the fridge and smiled. “How does Thai sound?” 

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Tony and Peter were walking out of the tower and down the street to one of Tony’s favorite Thai joints. 

The city was as busy as always, rush hour foot and automobile traffic clogging the sidewalks and streets. Peter didn’t seem to mind the crowds, though, so Tony tried to ignore them as well. 

Any trips from the tower usually entailed Happy driving or a private pilot hired to fly Tony to his desired destination (if he wasn’t in one of his autopilot jets or helicopters). Simply walking down the sidewalk like an average person felt rather foreign. 

Attracting any major attention to himself or Peter could go bad in many different ways. Encounters with fans (or haters) of Tony himself could ruin an entire evening in a second. Peter running into anyone that he knew would be hard to explain away, seeing as he was supposed to be dead. There was less risk of that happening, thanks to the boy’s overall anonymity, and Tony felt like a jerk thinking it, but lack of friends. He had school acquaintances, sure. But in the boy’s current physical state, it would take someone like Ned or MJ to truly recognize him. Besides, they weren’t in Queens where people in Peter’s neighborhood could recognize him. Peter didn’t have connections in Manhattan like Tony did. 

The afternoon would have been warm and pleasant if Tony hadn’t been wearing a hoodie. Short sleeves and pants would have been perfect, but his anonymity was best kept when he wasn’t _dressed_ like Tony Stark. Nobody would expect a billionaire to leave the house and prance around the city in a Yankees cap, a Midtown High sweatshirt, and a worn pair of Levi’s. 

Peter had adopted the same clothing principles; he wore a baseball cap and jeans, but had traded a sweatshirt out for a flannel with the collar popped. 

He’d been about to walk out of the penthouse in a t-shirt, but Tony had stopped him just as they stepped into the elevator. “Hey kid. We may wanna,” he motioned to his own neck, “cover that up.” 

Peter looked at his reflection in the elevator doors, running a few fingers gently across the butterfly of bruises that wrapped around the base of his throat. 

“Yeah. Right.” 

Before they left Tony called Bruce up from the lab and had him hang out in the living room with May. He didn’t want her waking up and freaking out when she realized Peter wasn’t with her. He knew _he_ would have, if his nephew had basically just come back from the dead. 

The two of them made it to the restaurant with no issues. The place was surprisingly empty for dinner time, but Tony wasn’t complaining. Less risk of being noticed. 

“Pepper found this place a while back,” Tony told Peter, trying to fill the empty space their lack of conversation had left. “She made me come with one her one night because she ‘ _just can’t stand another styrofoam container, Tony, I want my food to actually be hot when I eat it.”_

Peter managed to laugh. “Your Pepper impression isn’t bad, Mr. Stark. But you forgot to do the thing she does with her hands when she’s upset.” 

“What thing? I know that woman better than anyone and I don’t know about any _hand thing.”_

Peter scooted his chair back slightly to have more room behind the table. “Alright, so she lifts her hands up near her face like this. Then she spreads her fingers _abnormally_ wide, I’m not sure how, and she twists her wrists like she’s doing jazz hands.” Parker did the move himself, wiggling his fingers next to his face and feigning frustration. 

“Oh my god, kid, you’re right. She does do that. That reminds me of Monaco! I’d just crashed my race car because some guy had copied my tech and attacked me, right? So I was-“ 

“Mr. Stark, you _crashed a race car?”_

Tony waved a hand. “Yeah, but it was mine, so it doesn’t matter. Anyways, Pepper found out and grabbed Happy, and they drove a _Rolls Royce_ onto the track, _against traffic,_ to where I’d crashed. Pepper was in the backseat screaming her head off, and she was doing that exact hand thing the entire time.” 

By the end of the story, Peter had his hands wrapped around his stomach and was giggling like a toddler. “Y-you really worry me sometimes.” 

“I  thought I was dying from palladium poisoning! In my eyes, I had nothing to lose!” 

Tony had previously told Peter about the palladium poisoning, about how his blood toxicity levels skyrocketed and he’d almost been killed, for the second time, by something he himself had built. That was old news. 

But Peter had _actually_ died, and quite unexpectedly. He hadn’t been able to prepare for his demise like Tony had. He didn’t take any once-in-a-lifetime trips, or blow up his own birthday party, or crash a race car in Monaco. He just...left. 

Peter acted as if the conversation had never paused. “Well Pepper did, apparently, if she did the hand thing.” 

“Oh yea. She thought we were all goners.” 

* * *

It was dark by the time Tony and Peter left the restaurant, the city glowing around them as they walked home. It had been so long since Tony has just taken a walk around New York, seen the sights. It was refreshing. 

“You like the food?” Tony asked Peter. 

Peter nodded. “It was really good, actually.” 

“ _Actually?_ Did you doubt it beforehand?” 

“I mean, sort of-“ 

“ _Sort of?”_

“I figured it would be some fancy place with snails on the menu or something!” 

“Not all rich people eat nasty shit, Peter.” 

“How was I supposed to know? I’ve never been out to eat with you before!” 

Tony stopped walking suddenly, earning him an angry grunt and a shoulder shove from whoever had been behind him. He pulled Peter aside with a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“Are you serious? I’ve never taken you out to eat before?” 

Peter just shrugged. “I don’t think so. We were going to on my birthday last year, b-but you had to cancel. I c-can’t remember why.” He looked like he was about to cry, and it broke Tony’s heart. His eyes were watering, and he saw Peter swallow thickly. 

“Oh, kid, I’m so sorry, I just-“ 

“Mr. Stark-“

“No, really. I didn’t mean for-“ 

“ _Mr. Stark-“_

“Kid, we both know I’m bad with apologies, so just let me get through this-“ 

“ _Tony!”_

The use of his first name in itself was enough to shut Tony up. He had never, _never,_ heard _Tony_ come out of Peter’s mouth. 

“Yea, kid?” 

“I’m going to be sick.” 

Tony had no time for a proper reaction before Peter turned to the side, bent at the waist, and deposited the entirety of his dinner on the sidewalk. Several passers-by gave disgusted or pitying looks, but none stopped to help. Seeing someone puke in public was probably one of the least odd things they’d seen in this city. 

“‘M S’rry,” Peter said between retches, “s’rry M’sr Stark.” 

Tony scoffed. “You’re puking your guts up right now and _apologizing_ to me _?”_

With his eyes closed, Peter took a deep breath and stood up straight, using the wall of the building behind him to support himself. “Guess so.” 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

Peter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Guess I was allergic to something in the food.” 

“I thought you said your allergies disappeared after the spider incident.” 

“I thought they did. Maybe me sort of dying brought them back somehow.” 

He said _dying_ so casually, as if he’d just contracted a common cold or stubbed a toe. 

Tony gulped. “Yeah, maybe.” 

He kept a hand on Peter’s back as they walked away from the side of the building, trying to keep the kid from looking back at his own mess. He didn’t want to trigger another vomiting episode; Tony had barely made it through the first one. He’d never been great at comforting people. Pepper could definitely atone to that; he’d always been there for her when she was ill, holding her hair and rubbing her back, but no more than that. Any physical mess had to be taken care of by the cleaning staff or, in one case, Pepper herself. He’d felt terrible about it and had offered his help, but she’d simply said she’d rather clean it up herself than have him puking as well. 

“You wanna stop and grab a water somewhere, kid? I can’t imagine the taste in your mouth is very pleasant.” 

“If you don’t mind; that would be awesome. That food definitely isn’t as good the second time around.” 

“That’s gross, Peter.” He handed the boy a five dollar bill from his wallet, then took a seat at a small table outside of their chosen bodega to wait. 

He hadn’t gotten to just sit and people-watch in a long time. From his penthouse in the tower, the civilians below either looked like ants or were totally out of sight. Here he was right in the middle of the action, with a prime view of everyone on the street. In the three or four minutes he’d been waiting, he’d already seen two bikers almost get plowed by taxis and one man buy a cup of coffee from a street cart, only to drop it as soon as he walked away. Man, Tony loved New York. 

Suddenly, Peter’s voice was drifting through the open bodega doors. “Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark, Help!” 

Tony was out of his seat and in the store in an instant, immediately making his way to where he could see Peter’s legs peeking out behind the checkout counter. 

Peter was kneeling on the floor next to the cashier, the man’s name tag reading _Mark._ Mark’s eyes were half open, only the whites of them visible under the lids. His lips were slightly parted and tinged blue. 

Tony joined them on the floor. “What happened?” 

“I-I don’t know! I handed him the money and our hands touched, and something felt _weird,_ and then he was on the ground! He just collapsed!” 

_Something felt weird?_

“Is he breathing?” 

Peter shook his head. 

“Did you actually listen for breathing _,_ Peter?” 

“Mr. Stark, I could hear your heartbeat from several blocks away if I wanted to! I know this dude isn’t breathing! Oh, and about the heartbeat thing. I can’t hear his.” 

“Holy shit. Okay. Call 911, alright?” 

Peter just watched with his mouth open as Tony began chest compressions. “ _Now_ , Peter!” 

“Right, right.” Parker slipped Tony’s phone out of his pocket and dialed the number, frantically explaining the situation to the dispatcher and giving them their location. 

People started flooding in from outside the bodega. They must have heard the commotion and come looking for answers. By the time paramedics arrived, a small civilian group had formed around Tony, Peter, and Mark. 

“Clear a path! Hey! Move!” The paramedics used the gurney to push through the crowd and into the cramped store, lowering it next to Mark’s still form. 

One of the paramedics placed a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Alright, sir, we’ve got it from here.” 

It took Tony a moment to feel the pressure on his arm, to register the fact that someone was speaking to him. 

He hadn’t realized how tired he was until the paramedics moved Mark to the gurney. 

Or, they moved Marks’ _body_ to the gurney. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.”

He was tugged aside by a police officer before he could respond. _The cops are here? why?_

“Sir, my name is Officer Wilson. I’m going to need to take your statement.”

“My kid. Where is he?”

The officer motioned just past Tony, where a separate officer was talking to Peter. The boy, while looking nervous, offered a small smile and a nod. _I’m okay. Let’s just get this over with._ The way his fists were grasping his shirt sleeves told Tony otherwise, but there wasn’t much he could do about it at the moment.

“Give me your full name, please. No nicknames.”

“Anthony Stark.”

Wilson looked up from his notepad suddenly, as if he’d just realized that Iron Man himself was standing in front of him. “R-right. I need you to tell me what happened from beginning to end. Don’t spare any details.” 

“I really don’t know much,” Tony said. “I was sitting outside while I waited for the kid to grab a bottle of water. He started shouting for help, and when I came in, the cashier was on the ground.” 

“The kid. What’s his name?” 

According to the city of New York, Peter Benjamin Parker was a missing minor. If they found out he was alive and well in the very city from which he’d gone missing, and Tony hadn’t reported him found, he’d have major hell to pay. 

But what could he say? Peter will have already told the detective his name, so Tony couldn’t give Wilson a fake one. Could he? Or should he just fess up and tell them Peter Parker was back from the dead? 

No. Not an option. Peter Parker _wasn’t_ back from the dead. In fact, if his current lab samples were any indication, he may be heading back in that direction. 

Dark thoughts for another time. Tony needed to focus. 

“Peter. Stark.” 

Wilson almost dropped his pen. “He’s _yours?”_

“Yes sir, he is. Is that a problem?” 

“No! Not at all, Mr. Stark, I just, uh, I didn’t know you had children.” 

“Accidents happen. His mother just told me he existed a few months ago. Wild, right? You know, he gets super nervous around cops. He’s got some childhood trauma that sort of,” Tony used his pointer finger to draw small circles next to his temple, “messes him up. It’s all on his mother’s side of the family, of course.  But would you mind if I finished out his interview with him?” 

Wilson looked a little shell-shocked, but nodded at Tony nonetheless. 

“Fantastic, thanks.” 

Without wasting a second. Tony broke away from Wilson and walked over to Peter, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Hey guys, how we doin’ over here? Officer Wilson over there said I could stand in on this one.” 

Tony could feel Peter physically relaxing beneath his arm, the tense muscles in his shoulders loosening. 

Peter’s officer cleared his throat, evidently trying to take back control of the situation. “We’re actually almost done over here. I was just about to ask the kiddo his name.” 

 _Oh thank god._ Peter had gotten one of the cut-to-the-chase-cops that liked hearing the story before cataloguing anything else. 

Tony pulled Peter into his side and smiled. “This _ray of sunshine_ here is Peter Stark, officer.” 

Peter looked just as surprised as the officer did, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. 

“That true, son?” the officer asked, nudging his chin in Tony’s direction. “He’s your dad?” 

To Peter’s credit, he collected himself quickly. His look of surprise was replaced with a smile, and he wrapped an arm behind Tony’s back. “Sure is, sir.” 

“Ah, squirt. You’re too cute. Well, officers, we’ll be on our way. Wilson has my digits, call me if you need anything. Let’s go home, kiddo.” Tony promptly steered Peter out of the bodega just as Wilson was shouting “ _Don’t leave town!”_ through the open doors. 

Neither of them spoke until they were several blocks away from the bodega. 

“ _Peter Stark,”_ Peter said incredulously, disbelief evident in his tone. “You have a genius level IQ and you’re _Iron Man_ and all you could come up with was Peter Stark?” 

“Well we couldn’t give them your real name! How would it have looked if I was walking around with a kid that’s supposed to be M.I.A.?”

“How’s it going to look when they nail you with obstruction of justice?” 

“Neither of us committed a crime, kid. You didn’t kill that man.”

“Mr. Stark, you told them I was your kid! You gave them a fake name for one of their only two witnesses! They’re going to see through that eventually.”’

Someone sitting in a cafe eyed Tony through the window for just a bit too long. He pulled his Yankees cap lower on his face and picked up his pace. Peter skipped slightly to catch up. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s just get home before we really start panicking.” 

Peter actually had the audacity to laugh. “So much for not attracting attention to ourselves.” 

* * *

May, despite knowing Tony and Peter has just left for dinner, seemed relieved when they were back at the tower. 

“Oh honey, I’ve missed you!” May said, pulling Peter into a tight hug. He smiled and wrapped his arms around her. 

“You were down for the count, May.” 

“Well excuse me if I haven’t gotten much sleep in recent months.” 

Tony looked into the living room and realized Bruce wasn’t on the couch anymore. “Where’s Banner?” 

May waved a hand through the air as if she didn’t know and didn’t care. “Lab, maybe? I think that’s what he said. Told me where you guys went and then got up and walked out. Mentioned having important work to do.” 

“He’s a busy man.” 

“Must be,” May said, giving Peter one final squeeze before releasing him. “Why don’t you go shower, Peter? I know you said you took one this morning but I keep getting whiffs of river water, I’m not sure why.” 

“Alright.” Peter started heading in the direction of the hallway that led to his and Tony’s bedrooms, along with a few empty guest rooms. 

“And maybe go to bed right after.” 

“I’m not a child, May.” 

“You are until you’re eighteen. Go to bed. You could probably use the rest.” 

Tony chose not to remind her that her nephew had literally woken up in the Hudson earlier in the day. He probably wanted to do anything but go to sleep. If it were Tony, he’d be afraid he’d wake up somewhere else even more dangerous and just a little farther from home. 

But he kept his mouth shut and let Peter proceed to his room. He was waging a different internal battle at the moment; whether he should tell May about his and Peter’s run-in with the law, or keep his mouth shut so she wouldn’t worry. 

“You all right, Stark?” May approached Tony and offered a small smile. “You look like your mind is running a million miles a minute.” 

_How the hell did she do that?_

Tony was typically a master at hiding his emotions. After all, he’d been doing it for years; interview after photo shoot after press conference, Tony kept his face in a perpetual state of neutrality. Living most of his life in the limelight, he’d never had the luxury of letting his emotions get the best of him (aside from that rocky period in his teens/early twenties, but Tony typically tried to forget those years). No matter what was on his mind, he retained his signature Stark charm and sass and a blank look in his eyes. 

But not with May Parker. The woman had such a no-bullshit demeanor that any and all of his guards seemed to drop when he was around her. He suspected it had something to do with skills obtained from raising a teenage son. She always ended up knowing what she needed to know. 

Not right now, though. She didn’t need to know about the situation with the police. It could wait. She was basking in the glory of finally getting her nephew back. He’d let her enjoy it for a little longer. 

“I’m fine. Thanks, May.” 

She patted his shoulder and headed in the direction of her own guest room. Without looking back at him, she said, “Maybe you should go to bed too.” 

May was already down the hall by the time Tony worked up the nerve to speak, so he ended up addressing an empty living room. “Might be a good idea.” 

* * *

Sleep _was_ a good idea. Tony could feel exhaustion in his joints, eyes, mind, seemingly within his very bones. Peter’s return was a miracle and fantastic and he was absolutely overjoyed that he was back. But all of the shit that came with it was _really_ stressing him out. His physical deterioration? This new issue with the police? All of it happened within the span of a day, and he wasn’t sure he could handle it. 

Tony wasn’t at all surprised when he found himself lying on top of his bedcovers and staring at the ceiling late into the night. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, but it was one he really didn’t appreciate. 

The only upside to his insomnia was that he was able to watch the New York skyline from his window for hours on end. He had loved his Malibu home (before it was blown to smithereens by the Mandarine) but _nothing_ could beat NYC at night. Bright, multicolored lights twinkled against the nighttime sky. The stars were rarely visible from the city, but that was fine by Tony. He’d flown close enough to them in recent years that he didn’t think he’d have an issue never seeing them again. 

Skyscraper windows were his own version of stars, twinkling and flickering above the streets. Tony liked mentally cataloging which ones turned on and off at odd hours, imagining that maybe the individuals controlling them had lives just as chaotic and sleep-lacking as he did. 

Deciding he’d be getting no sleep in his actual bed, Tony situated himself and his comforter in a cushioned chair by the window. That’s what it took for him to get any rest at all sometimes; an uncomfortable position in an uncomfortable place. It was almost as if he’d spent so much time being wrapped in and protected by a suit of metal, that anything softer offered no sense of security. Not even his own bed.

As windows in faraway buildings glowed and the city below him continued moving, Tony began to doze. He could almost feel the exhaustion washing over him in waves, dragging his eyelids down as he finally- 

Someone knocked on his bedroom door. The chair beneath him scraped against the floor as he flinched, accidentally shoving his blanket off of his lap. 

Tony got up slowly and tugged the door open. “This better be good,” he said sleepily. 

One of the last things Tony expected to see was Peter standing in the hall, hand still in a fist and raised from knocking, a terrified look on his face. His mouth was partially open, like he really wanted to say something but couldn’t get the words out. 

“What is it, kid? Shouldn’t you be asleep?” 

Peter visibly swallowed and lowered his hand. “Mr. Stark, I think I killed that cashier.” 

  
  
  
  



	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a long time since the last update. I'd recommend going back and re-reading the last chapter, just to make sure you know what's happening in this one. 
> 
> It's been over two months since I've posted a new chapter. So sorry.
> 
> As always, edited by Alexandra926.

“Come again?”

The thin sheet of exhaustion previously laying atop Tony was quickly tugged away, leaving unease and maybe even a bit of fear in its wake. Peter sounded scarily sure of himself. He spoke without hesitation or unease, which is what frightened Tony most; despite being one of the smartest people Tony knew, Peter was always a little insecure. Never wanting to step too far out of bounds. None of that uncertainty was showing itself at the moment. 

Peter ducked under the arm Tony had on the doorframe and came into the bedroom. He walked toward the bed and paused, scanning the area for somewhere to sit. He ignored the chair and the bed, apparently deeming any sort of interaction with those objects unacceptable, and plopped straight onto the floor. The way he had his legs crossed gave him an appearance painfully close to that of a toddler during storytime. It was startling, really, how easy it was to imagine Peter Parker as nothing but a child.

Despite the fact that he’d just admitted to killing a man. 

“I think I _killed_ that cashier, Mr. Stark., Oh my god.”

Tony could see Peter’s oncoming hysterical episode in the taut lines of his mouth and tightly closed eyes. 

“Hey, okay, hey. Just pause for a second. Breathe.” Tony watched as Peter took a deep breath and released it through his nose. “Yea, okay. That’s good.”

Tony kneeled to be level with him, but didn’t come any closer. If Peter was fighting off a panic attack, he needed some space. “Now, take a second to really think about what you’re saying. You didn’t kill anyone, kiddo. You handed the man some money and he collapsed. That’s all. Right? Not your fault.”

Peter’s head was turned. Tony followed his eyes to the New York skyline outside the window. Nighttime was still in full swing, no traces of daylight visible through or behind the trillions of stars above the skyscrapers.

“All I did was pull. It was just a pull.”

“You said you just barely touched his hand.” 

“Yea.” 

“Then what do you mean by ‘ _All I did was pull?’”_

Peter pulled his eyes away from the window. He wasn’t looking at Tony’s face, exactly, more like a spot next to his head and just over his shoulder. 

“There was this… this feeling.” He stopped there, taking a moment to compose himself. “When I touched the cashier. I felt something in my stomach. Not nausea. More like, I don’t know, a tugging feeling? The tugging started when our hands touched and all I could think about was getting away from him, because there was something black and slimy and _awful_ around him. Like a shadow, but instead of being outside him, I could feel it floating around _inside.”_

 _That_ was a lot to unpack. 

Peter had been through a traumatic event. everal, if you counted the death of his parents and uncle. but Tony was more focused upon the things that had happened within the last day or two). Hell, he’d woken up in the Hudson two days ago with his feet encased in cement. That was enough to throw anyone a little off-balance. But he’d seemed...He’d _seemed_ relatively stable up until this point. Tony hadn’t seen any warning signs of psychosis, at least. 

But Tony didn’t know what he’d gone through in the last year. Not really. He may have shown up about a day ago, but he’d been missing for almost a _year._ What happened between then and now? He hadn’t been underwater that long. There was no way. 

The dark purple bruises circling Peter’s neck were visible despite the darkness of the bedroom. He had a feeling, no matter when Parker had actually gotten them, that they’d never fade. 

Tony needed to find out what happened to Peter. Where he’d been for all of those months, what had been done to him. He had to know. He deserved to know. So did May. 

But would May _want_ to know? Tony could only imagine how she felt during Peter’s absence, could only imagine the sense of loss. She’d had no idea where her child was, if he was hurt or worse. Would she really want to know if he was being tortured? Experimented on? 

A small, quiet part of Tony added, _If he’d died_? 

But Peter wasn’t dead. He was sitting on the penthouse floor, his left shoulder pressed to Tony’s right. If Tony really focused and activated his imagination, he could hear Peter’s heartbeats, his even breaths as he sucked air in through his parted lips. 

But he couldn’t hear the heartbeat, the breaths. Bruce Banner had pointed out during Peter’s exam that he was barely pumping enough blood to be considered alive. He _shouldn’t_ be alive with a bpm of, like, 5, but here Peter was, having a breakdown that made him seem very much _not_ like a corpse. 

“I know you think I’m crazy,” Peter whispered. 

“I don’t think you’re crazy.” 

Peter finally made eye contact. He blinked a few times. 

“I think you _sound_ crazy, but I don’t think you yourself are crazy.” 

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me.” Peter threw his hands in the air and hopped off the floor. He took to pacing in a straight line toward the window, past the bed, almost to Tony, then back to the window. “I’m telling you, Mr. Stark, I did something. When I felt it, that inky darkness, it was like an internal tug-of-war. The cashier had one end of the rope and I had the other. Once I felt it, I just - I couldn’t - I had to _win._ So I pulled. I tugged just enough, and the darkness left.” 

Tony’s brow furrowed. He was much too old to sit on the ground for this long, so he pushed off the floor with a grunt and sat on the edge of his bed. The fitted sheet was cold and unwrinkled from lack of use. Tony guessed he wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight, either. “It left? Where did it go?” 

Peter stopped pacing mid-stride. “Into me, I think.” 

“ _Pardon?”_

"I know it sounds weird. But I think I took it? I’m not sure.” 

“Well does _everyone_ have the...Whatever you called it. Blackness.” 

Peter had stopped pacing. He was focused on Tony, now, with an almost uncomfortable intensity. His eyes seemed to trace the outline of Tony’s face, his arms, as he sat on the bed. 

Peter shook his head, his hair moving with him. It had really grown out in the year he’d been gone. It was fluffy and fell over his forehead, the ends curling around the edges near his ears. “No. You don’t have it.” 

Tony, despite the intensity of the conversation, was losing his resolve. Exhaustion was kicking in, and the temptation of tucking into the bed beneath him and not leaving it for the foreseeable future was quickly becoming too strong to resist. 

“Maybe it was a one-time thing. A fluke. A hallucination.” 

Peter huffed. He’d wrapped his arms around his front and grabbed his elbows like he was trying to keep his heart from falling out of his chest. “Yea. I guess a hallucination could be possible. I did die, after all.” The casual way in which he said it, said something so outrageous but possibly true, was extremely unsettling. 

Peter looked up when Tony accidentally let a particularly wide yawn escape. “I’m sorry, I’m keeping you awake.” 

“Life keeps me awake, Kid. Don’t sweat it.” 

“No, I’m gonna go. Goodnight, Mr. Stark, sorry to bother you.” 

“No Peter it’s fine, really, wait-“

The bedroom door shut quickly. Tony, in his exhausted state, could do nothing but look at it. He lay back on the bed, not caring that his comforter was still on the floor. He was still trying to process the last twenty minutes. “You gotta open up, kid.” 

* * *

 If Tony knew Peter was on the roof, he’d freak out. 

Peter didn’t really know where else to go. He didn’t feel tired in the slightest and knew laying in his overly-soft bed downstairs wasn’t going to change that. He couldn’t stand sitting in his room and listening to the hum of the air conditioner any more. He had to get some _real_ air before he plugged the vent with old socks and silly putty. 

It wasn’t like Peter hadn’t been on the roof of the Avengers tower before. Of course he had. It was one of his favorite places in the entire city, aside from his and May’s apartment and Ned’s room (he had the _coolest_ vintage Star Wars posters that Peter had always wanted. He’d found them at a pawnshop for ridiculously cheap, and Peter took every chance he could get to stare at them). 

The top of the tower was always so quiet. High above the glowing, busy streets of New York, the sounds of pedestrian and vehicle traffic alike were almost nonexistent. Peter vaguely remembered MJ telling him about her vacation to Florida and the parasailing trip she went on while she was there. She said despite being in a parachute about fifty feet above the ocean, it was almost dead silent. The sound of the boat engine faded away, and you couldn’t hear anything but the howling wind and your own breathing. 

Sometimes Peter called upon that memory, that description, and pretended the top of the tower was his own little getaway. An exotic parasailing trip without the boat, or ropes, or ocean. But he had the sky, and his lungs, and that was enough. 

Thinking about MJ made Peter miss his friends. In the least cocky way possible, Peter had been a sort of linchpin between the three of them. MJ and Ned likely wouldn’t even be friends if it wasn’t for Peter introducing them. He hoped the two of them had found comfort in one another in his absence. That they still hung out on Fridays, still dumped bags of M&Ms in bowls of popcorn and made a mess on the living room couch of whoever was hosting that weekend’s get-together. There were enough butter and chocolate stains on Peter’s living room sofa to prove that he’d offered his place as the hangout spot on multiple occasions. 

His friends missed him too, right? Surely they were grieving. After all, they likely thought he’d died. 

 _I did die,_ Peter reminded himself. 

Because it was death, wasn’t it? Whatever was constantly sending chills down his spine. Whatever killed all of those fish in the Hudson when he woke up. Whatever kept him alive after inhaling lungfuls of water. 

Whatever was responsible for that horrible, black, oily darkness he’d felt when he touched that cashier’s hand at the convenience store. Because whatever it was, it wasn’t anything close to life. He’d hated every second of it, but not because it felt wrong. He’d been unsettled when he saw it around the cashier at first, wondering if the light within the store was casting odd shadows. Or maybe he was seeing things, the effect of a water-addled brain that was only receiving blood about ten times a minute. But then he saw them when their hands touched; images. Of what, he couldn’t quite discern just yet, but they were images nonetheless, and they weren’t his own. All he’d known was that the cashier was holding onto those images with a sort of sick fascination. With _pride._ It had filled Peter’s own chest like a deadly gas. 

He knew the second he felt it that he had to take it. Whatever it was didn’t belong to that man. Didn’t belong in his head or heart or wherever he was keeping the images that Peter couldn’t yet see, but knew he’d pay for possessing. Above all else, Peter felt atonement as he watched the blackness slither from the cashier into himself. Like he’d done something right. A universal scale had been balanced. 

But then there was a dead cashier on the dirty bodega floor and Peter couldn’t figure out why. His lethargic heart was beating way faster than it had been all day, and he had lost his train of thought as he called for Tony to come fix whatever horrible thing he’d managed to do.

The wind picked up on top of the tower and Peter’s hair shifted across his forehead. The edges tickled his eyelids, but he didn’t care. His eyes were closed. He was trying to recall those images he’d gotten from the cashier. They were just a blur of faces and movement at the moment, tornadoes of sound and color. It was like having a broken TV, one of the ones that kept switching channels on its own, and you just got flashes of faces and voices as the numbers in the corner of the screen climbed. 

The channel froze. One of the faces focused, and then the next. Peter was quickly slipping into the image. He could still feel the roof of Avengers tower, the ledge he was sitting on, the wind making his eyes water. But all he could see was a woman lying on a hardwood floor. Her hands were thrown up over her face. Peter thought she might have been crying. 

_"Please, Mark, Stop! Why are you doing this?”_

A hand appeared in the corner of Peter’s vision. There was something cold and heavy pressed into his palm. 

“ _He was here! That motherfucker was here!”_

_"There was no one here! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”_

The voice seemed to be coming from Peter, but he’d never seen this woman before, had no recollection of ever speaking to her, especially not like this. He sincerely hoped he’d never spoken to someone like that. Ben and May had taught him better. 

_“You cheating bitch! Just admit it! Don’t fucking lie!”_

_“Mark, please, no one-“_

_Peter positioned the object in his hand, slid his finger over the trigger._

No. Not Peter. Mark. The cashier. Peter was seeing this from his point of view. 

_The tip of the pistol pressed into the woman’s forehead. Her crying escalated quickly, evolving into something close to a pained howl. “This isn’t you! You don’t have to do this!”_

_Mark’s change in demeanor was abrupt but sure. He straightened his legs quickly and stood from the floor, his back facing the crying woman. He eyed the framed photos lining the dark hallway. They looked cheerful, like a couple’s photos_ should _look. The proof of his admiration for her was everywhere; in the way his eyes never left her, the way his hand wrapped around her waist. He loved her more than life itself. Even the photographs proved that._

_And she’d thrown it all away to fuck some bastard that didn’t even care about her._

_Without a word, without a second thought, Mark spun on his heel, aimed the gun, and fired._

The shot seemed to ring out in real time. Peter was so startled he almost fell off the roof ledge, catching himself at the last second with one hand attached to the side of the building. He climbed back over the edge and threw himself down on his back, not minding how the impact knocked the air out of his chest. He didn’t need it, anyways. 

That vision. No, not a vision. It was a memory. Mark’s memory. It had that thick darkness surrounding it, clouding Peter’s vision whenever he tried to recall any piece of it. 

Mark has killed someone. A _woman._ He obviously wasn’t in jail, hadn’t been caught. 

Peter didn’t know how he could tell. Maybe it was the intensity of the shadow that he pulled from Mark, the depth of its origin. But there was no mistaking the void for what it was. Or wasn’t, for that matter. Mark killed that woman and didn’t regret it _one bit_. His satisfaction, his sick pride, it was all twisted up in the darkness. And now Peter had it bouncing around inside his skull. 

Peter closed his eyes, threw an arm over his face, and cried. He cried and cried until he was heaving like he still needed air. He cried until his heart was pounding so hard that he went dizzy from the sheer amount of blood flowing through him that, for the last day or two, had been moving at a snail’s pace. He could barely discern which emotions were his and which were Mark’s. There was a definite sense of fear; Mark’s. It was more fear of being caught than anything else. Unease; Peter had a feeling that was a little bit of both of them. The grief, though, the underlying blue and purple haze within the black. That was all Peter. 

* * *

Despite telling Peter to go to bed and heading that way herself, May hadn’t expected to get much sleep. Her day-long nap on the couch would surely keep her awake. Her child being basically back from the dead may have also had something to do with it. 

The second she saw him, she didn’t want to let him out of her sight. His shaggy hair, big smile, slightly crooked nose, it was all painfully familiar. She’d missed it. She’d missed him. 

May knew being Spider-Man was risky. Every gig had its pros and cons, superhero gigs included. It took her a long time to come around to the idea of Peter being a super-powered vigilante, but May had seen him do some pretty incredible things over the years. Physical and emotional strength were sewn into Peter’s very genes. He was more than capable of taking care of himself. He’d come to her or Tony if he knew he was in too deep. 

At least, she’d thought he would. He must have really been in over his head if he’d managed to get himself kidnapped. 

The alarm clock on May’s bedside table switched silently from 3:23am to 3:24am, looking almost exactly as it had when it switched from 3:22 to 3:23. The glow of the numbers was almost the same shade of blue as Iron Man’s gauntlets. May had only ever seen them on TV, but it was enough to know that the color match was probably intentional. 

May was...Okay with Tony Stark. She didn’t particularly love him or what he stood for. His rocky past. His early 2000s sexcapades and very, _very_ public intoxication incidents. But he took care of Peter. In May’s book, anyone earned points for doing that. 

It didn’t make her feel any less guilty for staying in his tower. It wasn’t like he was short on living space, really, but she still felt like she was hogging the penthouse when she sat on his fancy couches or drank the milk in his fridge. Her and Tony had been spending rather significant amounts of time together while searching for Peter. She’d been around the tower enough in recent months that it wouldn’t have been wrong for her to feel at home among the marble countertops and jacuzzi bathtubs. But in recent years, nowhere felt like home when Peter wasn’t nearby. It had been May and Peter against the world since Ben died. With Peter’s bed going cold for almost a year, she felt stuck. Alone. Carrying the Parker name when it was never hers in the first place. Peter’s parents, Ben; they deserved to be alive and kicking, spreading all kinds of Parker knowledge and love and success across the city. But they weren’t, and the apartment seemed too big with just her and Peter, and the hallway that lead to Peter’s bedroom seemed like an endless abyss without him there. 

 _He’s here_ , she reminded herself in the dark of her borrowed bedroom in Stark Tower, _he’s alive. He’s okay. Peter’s home._

_Peter._

“FRI, how’s Peter? Asleep?” She wouldn’t have been surprised if he crashed early. He looked like death incarnate when him and Tony got back from dinner. 

_“Mister Parker is on the roof, ma’am. Would you like me to let you know you’re looking for him?”_

May scrunched her nose. “The roof? Why?” 

_“I don’t know, ma’am. Would you like me to ask?”_

“Lord, no. That’s creepy. I’ll go check on him.” 

“Please be careful. The wind is strong tonight, and you’ll be 93 stories above the ground.”

“Thanks, FRIDAY. Really makes me feel safe.” 

Even Stark Tower’s private elevator didn’t go to the roof, so May had to ride it to the 90th floor and hike up three flights of stairs. The treck wouldn’t have been terrible if the stairwell wasn’t ridiculously cold, and if she’d remembered to bring her slippers. She broke out in goosebumps every time the soles of her feet touched the concrete stairs. She hadn’t thought to bring socks or shoes. She didn’t know why. Just hopped out of bed, grabbed the old sweater of Ben’s she’d brought to the tower this morning, and walked right out of her room. 

May threw the rooftop access door open and the wind blew it closed again. She jumped when it slammed in her face. A more carefully calculated push yielded the results she wanted, and she stepped through the doorway into the night air. FRIDAY had been right; the breeze on the roof was abnormally strong, and not to mention frigid, for June _._ Ben’s sweater did almost nothing to eliminate the chill. 

“Peter? Honey, are you up here?” 

Someone cleared their throat. “Yea, here,” they called back. May moved in the direction of the voice. She noticed Peter lying flat on the roof. He was breathing heavy.

“Peter! Are you alright?”

He propped himself up on one elbow. His breaths were evening out, albeit slowly. He only glanced at May before turning away and aiming his gaze over the side of the roof. “Yea, yea. I’m okay. Just couldn’t sleep.”

May hooked her hand under Peter’s shoulder and pulled him up. She was able to support enough of him to get him off the ground despite his wobbling knees, but he seemed heavier than she remembered. Not like he’d gained weight, but like he’d bulked up. Gained some muscle mass. Had he always been so muscular? Surely not. May had always had trouble finding clothes for him. He was the definition of Tall and Lanky; he either wore long pants that sagged at the waist, or highwaters that fit around the hips. The sleeves of his shirts were never long enough, but the torsos always hung too wide and low. She didn’t know when he’d suddenly began filling out his clothes. Looking like a man. It definitely wasn’t puberty. He’d been just as noodle-like after that as he had been before the fact. The new muscle must have come from the spider bite. From the villain-fighting. May wondered how it had never caught her attention. 

“Why are you up here?” Peter asked, eyeing the way the ends of Ben’s sweater were bunched up in May’s fists. The wind blew her hair into her face and she tucked it behind her ear. 

“I couldn’t sleep, either. Thought I’d see how you’re holding up.” She and Peter stood arm-in-arm, a few feet from the building ledge. It was only about two feet tall, not near high enough to keep her from tumbling to her death. She knew Peter could stick to walls and stuff, swing on those webs, but she had no such ability. She wasn’t taking any chances. She nudged Peter with her elbow. “So how are you?” she asked sincerely. “Holding up, I mean.”

Peter visibly swallowed. “Okay.”

“Peter.”

“May.”

“ _Peter.”_ He was hiding something. She could tell. 

“Alright, so maybe a little less than okay.” Peter’s lips were chapped. He licked them before he spoke, which May had told him repeatedly over the years would only make them worse. “I’m just confused.” He rubbed at the horrific looking bruises around his neck, as if he could still feel the pressure of whatever had put them there. 

“Confused about what?” 

“Where I’ve been. Where I _went._ Why I didn’t come back sooner.” He paused for a moment, licked his lips again. May refrained from saying anything. “How are they?”

“How are who?”

“My friends. Ned. MJ.”

May had kept in contact with the kids in the wake of Peter’s disappearance. She’d always liked the two of them, Ned and MJ. Ned’s goofy humor and MJ’s surprisingly prim manners were pleasant to have around and reminded May that Peter was an excellent judge of character. A good boy who made good choices. May invited the two of them over for dinner every once in awhile. Just to catch up. To vent. To cry over Peter. To not be alone in the apartment for five seconds. To feel like she was taking care of someone, providing for someone, even if it wasn’t Peter.

“They’ve probably been better. They did lose their best friend, after all.”

Peter’s lip wobbed, and May knew she’d said the wrong thing. She seemed to do it a lot. She was a parent. It came with the territory. “I didn’t _want_ to go,” he said quietly, just before the tears began falling. 

“Oh, I know you didn’t, Peter. I know that. I know that.”

He returned her hug with an intensity she wasn’t expecting. “But _they_ don’t. They probably think I did something stupid and got myself killed. MJ always warned me Spider-Man’s life would catch up with Peter Parker’s. That I needed to-“ His words got stuck behind a hiccup, “to be more c-careful. I just- I didn’t-  I thought I’d have more time before I royally screwed up.”

May kissed the top of his head. Peter’s hair had gotten longer. He needed a trim.

There were so many things she wanted to ask him, questions she needed answered. But Peter didn’t seem like he was in the shape for an interrogation. He was certainly fragile at the moment. May didn’t want to force him to talk about anything that would set him off. 

So she tried choosing her words carefully, balancing the tone and intensity behind each one to the best of her abilities. “If it’s alright, Peter, I’d sort of like to know what happened. If you’re okay with telling me, of course.”

Peter went totally still in May’s arms. She thought he may have stopped breathing. From her position wrapped around him, she could see the New York skyline glittering over his shoulder. Being this high up in the air was frightening, but she had to admit, the view was killer. 

“I don’t remember much,” he said quietly. “Just some voices. A face or two, but I have no idea who they belong to. I don’t even remember what I was doing before I-”

 _Before you were taken,_ May thought to herself. “Did it have to do with Spider-Man? Something he was involved with?”

Peter wiped his nose on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. She’d been telling him not to do that or ages, that it was gross and unsanitary and ruined his shirt sleeves. He never listened. She didn’t mind it this time, though. The action was so undeniably _Peter_ that it made May’s heart ache. She’d take snotty Peter over absent Peter any day.

Peter nodded. “It had to do with Spider-Man. I woke up in the suit.”

Peter startled a little when May pulled him out of her arms and held him by his shoulders. 

“You woke up in the suit?”

“Yea. Did Tony not tell you about it this morning?”

“He didn’t even tell me you ‘ _woke up_ ’. It was more of a ‘Peter’s just decided to show up, come to the tower’. I didn't really ask any questions.” 

* * *

Peter wasn’t going to tell May he woke up in the Hudson. That would only scare her.Or that he was sort of dead.

That might scare her too.

Or that he was 99% sure he had killed a man and absorbed memories of the man’s previously committed murder. 

That would undoubtedly scare her. Hell, it scared _him._

“Let’s head inside, Peter. I can’t see the ground from up here and it’s making me woozy.”

Peter chuckled. “Yea, alright.”

“Maybe we can both try and get some sleep.”

 Peter wasn’t tired. He didn’t know why, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t fall asleep tonight.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Thanks for reading. I just wanted to go ahead and give you a little list of story details that you may have forgotten. 
> 
> 1\. Peter was missing for almost a year.  
> 2\. This story takes place in June.  
> 3\. Peter woke up in the Hudson River.  
> 4\. There were hundreds of dead fish in the river after he crawled out. Their cause of death is unknown.  
> 5.Despite this story currently being 5 chapters long, we're still in the first day. Peter made his way from the river to stark tower in the morning, and this chapter takes place that evening.  
> 6.Bruce tried taking DNA samples from Peter to test. They degraded too quickly to yield any results on the genetic level.


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edited by Alexandra926

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! This new chapter is your gift. Here you go.

_ Bruce’s research had been worse than bad. It was damning. It more or less proved that Peter’s current condition would only be in decline. _

_ How was May Parker supposed to handle that? How was Tony supposed to handle that? They’d just gotten the boy back! Peter had barely been home for a full day. He’d barely gotten to shower and relax for a little while before Bruce had discovered the heartwrenching evidence of advanced physical decay in his cells. _

* * *

_ Peter shrugged. “I mean, I don’t really feel hungry.”  _

_ “Seriously? Like, at all?”  _

_ “Not really.”  _

* * *

_ “I just miss the city, I guess. I can’t exactly go out as Spider-Man at the moment, seeing as everyone thinks I’ve disappeared.”  _

_ “Everyone thinks Peter Parker has disappeared, too.”  _

_ Tony hadn’t meant to say it. Peter didn’t need to be reminded of everyone else he’d left behind. But it was too late now, and the boy looked as if he were beginning to spiral.  _

_ “I c-completely forgot. Ned, MJ. I didn’t tell either of them I was back.”  _

* * *

_ “I don’t...I don’t remember.  Anything.”  Anything but falling. Dizziness. Something cold encasing his feet, something heavy on his throat- _

_ Peter took a deep breath. “Yeah, nothing.” _

* * *

Wilson Fisk was an organized man. 

His workspace was tidy, his closet color-coordinated, his home dustless. Never would there be a trace of  _ his  _ fingerprints on any of the materials in his warehouses. His suits? Impeccably steamed and dry-cleaned frequently. Never a wrinkle or speck of blood to be found. His home? Absolutely no evidence that he is the leader of New York’s most influential drug depot, or that he’s got the personal phone numbers of some of the most dangerous crime lords on the planet. 

That was the life Fisk had created for himself. Snow-white suits, marble countertops, more money than he could ever hope to spend. A lovely woman at his side. 

Vanessa completed the circuit. A goddess among mortals, in Wilson’s eyes. He’d never met anyone who moved with such elegance, had a voice practically made of silk. Her passion for her craft was awe-inspiring. Thanks to her, Wilson’s life was full of art, his once white penthouse walls now full of color, his once dull life now rosy red like her lipstick, soft green like her favorite gown. 

Not only was Vanessa his perfect life partner, she was the perfect business partner as well. She wasn’t blind to the sort of business she was helping conduct; she simply acted as if it were no different than the art trading and collecting she’d done for years. She analyzed numbers, solved problems, coordinated transactions. Chose the perfect display pieces for the spaces she was trying to fill, got rid of the ones that weren’t working or that were getting in the way. Appreciated the rare ones, knew their value and contributions to society.   About a year ago, there had been one particular red and blue piece in Wilson’s metaphorical gallery that had set her on edge. 

“This Spider-Man figure,” Vanessa had said to Wilson one evening, watching the New York skyline outside the penthouse windows, “I don’t like him.”

Wilson scoffed. His glass of scotch was much more potent than Vanessa’s wine, and he was already four servings in, not to mention he’d been drinking it on an empty stomach. The day had been busy. He hadn’t eaten dinner yet. 

Vanessa had only sipped at her drink. She swirled the contents in a hypnotizing circle, bare feet out of her heels and tucked beneath her on the sofa. If Wilson were any less inebriated, he may have been worried about her spilling the bright red liquid on his white area rug.  A beautiful piece, imported from an interior designer in Dubai.

“Nobody likes him, darling. Not even the police. He’s a bit of a nuisance.” Wilson loosened his tie at the neck, relaxing more and more by the second. Calm evenings like this with Vanessa were few and far in between. He planned on actually enjoying the time they had together. 

Vanessa seemed to have no such plans. “He’s getting too close.” Wilson watched as her carefully manicured hand gently set her wine glass on the coffee table. She stood from the sofa and walked slowly back and forth across the room. “Several of the scouts have seen him lurking near our warehouses. One of your men mentioned him poking around the Hell’s Kitchen location. He’s going  _ very _ far out of his way to keep an eye on us.”

Fisk hoped that particular rumor wasn’t true. He had enough to worry about in Manhattan with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen constantly up his ass. “I thought Spider-Man was more into low-level crime and helping kittens out of trees. Why is he suddenly so interested in large operations?”

Vanessa’s lips pursed. Wilson noticed she was wearing a new lipstick color, something a few shades lighter than her usual. It looked wonderful with her eyes. “I’m not sure. That’s why I’m a bit worried. There have been rumors that he has connections to the Avengers. That could be dangerous for us.”

Us. Fisk loved the way she said  _ us,  _ like it was a promise. An unbreakable bond. “We’re a bit below the Avengers’ pay grade, don’t you think? They seem to care more about aliens and their own hide than they do everyday crime.”

“Wilson, I don’t think you’re listening to me. Spider-Man is onto us. There are too many variables with him involved. He needs to be taken out of the equation.”

“Taken out of the equation?” Wilson was taken aback. Vanessa had given the kill-order before; the action in itself was old news. But she usually discussed her reasoning with him a bit more before making such a decision. “Spider-Man isn’t like the others. He’s rather high profile. His disappearance would be noticed.”

“So we cover it up.”

“This won’t be our usual ‘dispose of the body, and do it well’ sort of deal, darling. This has to be complete. No trace we were involved. No inclination that he’d ever been looking into us. As much as half of New York hates Spider-Man, the other half of the city loves him and will notice his absence.”

“You worry too much, Wilson.”

This was where Wilson Fisk and Vanessa Marianna differed. Wilson was a man driven by logic, always making the smart choice and not necessarily the fun one. Vanessa, while not totally lacking a sense of reason, was heavily influenced by passion and whims of fancy. This particular whim of fancy was too risky. Too many things could go wrong.

“This isn’t the sort of job I could just pass to one of my men. I’m not even sure all of them would be willing to do it.”

Vanessa smiled sweetly. That lipstick color really did look wonderful against her fair skin. 

She stood on the balls of her feet, stretching to bring those tinted lips toward Wilson’s ear. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. The warm hand she had on his cheek sharply contrasted her icy tone. “That’s why you’ll kill Spider-Man yourself.”

* * *

When Tony walked into the penthouse kitchen the next morning, Peter was leaned over the dining table, a mug of steaming coffee in hand. 

The kid looked...Worse for wear, to put it simply. The bruises on his neck hadn’t faded in the slightest; if anything, they seemed to be a more vibrant purple when compared to the pallor of his skin. There were dark rings under his eyes. His hair was an absolute mess, all matted to one side from rubbing against a pillow all night like he couldn’t get comfortable. 

“Not sleeping in today?” Tony asked as he walked into the room, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice. Maybe  _ he  _ should have slept in. After all, the sun was just beginning to rise outside the living room’s wall of windows, dispelling the previous evening’s darkness and painting the penthouse in shades of pink and orange. 

Peter shook his head, then raised his mug to his lips. Despite the fact that steam was still rising in tendrils from the mug, he took a large swig as if the temperature didn’t bother him and placed his now-empty cup back on the table. “No. Not sleeping  _ at all,  _ apparently.” 

Tony noticed he was drinking his coffee black. That in itself was odd; in the past, Tony had made fun of Peter notoriously for adding too much cream and sugar to his morning pick-me-up. Stark had never seen someone’s coffee go completely white with cinnamon roll-flavored creamer before he met Peter. His affinity for sweets was one of his defining characteristics. 

“Seriously? You didn’t sleep at all? You looked absolutely wiped last night.” Tony was pleasantly surprised to find that there was still-warm coffee left in the pot and hurriedly poured himself some. “I think rest would do you some good.” 

“Not for a lack of trying, Mr. Stark.” Peter went silent for a moment, eyes trained on his empty mug. “I’ve been back for a whole day. From wherever I was.” 

Tony tried sipping his coffee and promptly burnt the hell out of his tongue. Peter patiently waited for him to finish letting out a nasty string of expletives before continuing. “I know that doesn’t seem like that long, considering how long I was gone, but don’t you think maybe it’s time to tell my friends? The authorities?” 

Tony, in a moment of mental weakness, actually laughed. He really didn’t mean for it to slip out, but how could he not chuckle at the idea? “You want to tell the  _ authorities?”  _

“Well, yeah. A bunch of people think I’m missing, don’t they? I think my friends deserve to know I still exist.”  _ I still exist.  _ Not,  _ I’m still alive. _

“You’re filed as a missing minor, yes. But do you not remember what happened yesterday? Our little run-in with the boys in blue after dinner?” 

“Sure I do. What does that have to do with anything?” 

“That cashier.”

“The one I killed.” 

Peter said  _ killed  _ with pursed lips. Like the whole event was flooding back to him and he was trying not to break down suddenly and completely. 

“We don’t know that.  _ You  _ don’t know that. But that’s not my point. When they were questioning us, I, uh…” At the time, Tony’s lie had seemed reasonable. But now, actually talking it out with Peter, Tony recognized an incoming emotion he hadn’t felt in a long time; embarrassment. Whether it was over the lie itself or his tactlessness, he didn’t know. His cheeks heated up and he refused to make eye contact with Parker as he said, “I told them you were my illegitimate son, remember? If we go and tell them you’re Peter  _ Parker,  _ they’ll connect the dots and realize several things. One, that we gave a  _ fake  _ name when giving a witness statement, and two, that I’ve been harboring a missing child for a full day. It won’t turn out well for anyone.” 

Tony hated how utterly defeated Peter looked. “Could I at least go home for a while? Spend some time in the apartment?” He quickly surveyed his clothes. He had gone to bed in the band t-shirt and sweatpants Tony had given him upon his return to the tower. “Not that I don’t like it here! I do! The penthouse is  _ really  _ nice, and you’ve been so nice, and-“ 

“But you miss the comforts of home,” Tony finished for him. “I get it, kid. I do.” Stark did get it, the need to be in his own element. As long as Peter has been visiting the tower, Tony noticed that he never fully warmed up to it. It was probably a combination of things; the expensive furniture, the security personnel everywhere, the fact that they were at the top of a skyscraper in one of the nicest neighborhoods in Manhattan. Tony lived for the leather couches and skyline views, but he could understand that not everyone felt at ease in such an environment. “We should probably talk to your aunt.” 

Peter nodded, then stood from the table with his hand loosely wrapped around his coffee mug. “Can we wait a while before waking her? She was up pretty late last night. With all of the excitement from the last 24 hours I think she needs the rest.” 

“Yeah, sure. That’s fine.”

A moment of silence. “Can we take the train?”

“You wanna take the train? All the way to Queens? That’s a long ride.”

“It’s not like I’ve got anywhere to be.”

“Aren’t you worried about someone you know seeing you?”

Peter shrugged. “It’s Saturday. Anyone that might recognize me doesn’t have a morning or evening commute today. Should be fine.”

Tony had waited too long; his coffee was cold. He’d never been one for microwaved  _ anything,  _ so he dumped the mug’s contents down the sink and began pouring himself a new cup. “I just don’t think this is the sort of situation when  _ should be  _ is enough-  _ shit!” _

Peter pushed Tony away from the sink so quickly that neither of them had time to catch the coffee pot before it shattered against the kitchen floor. 

“Kid! What the hell was that?”

Peter didn’t respond. Probably because he was spilling the contents of his stomach into Tony’s sink. 

Tony moved to stand behind Peter, even going as far as to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, but he took careful care to avert his eyes. His own stomach twinged in sympathy. 

Once he was done, Tony swiped a paper towel off the roll and handed it over. Peter quickly ran it over his lips and switched the sink on. “That’s the only thing I’ve eaten since dinner yesterday, and I couldn’t even keep it down.”

Tony scoffed. “I’m not sure I’d consider a cup of coffee  _ food _ .” Peter wasn’t lying; Tony hadn’t seen him eat since dinner yesterday. The dinner he hacked onto the sidewalk almost directly after consuming it. 

“Pete, have you actually been  _ hungry  _ since yesterday? Like, genuinely stomach-rumble hungry?” 

Peter walked away from the sink to sit back down in his chair at the kitchen table. He leaned forward and rested his chin on his arms. His eyes slid shut, and if Tony didn’t know any better, he’d have thought the kid was asleep. “Not really. Haven’t been thirsty either. I only went for the coffee out of habit.” 

Tony couldn’t stop himself before a confused “ _ Really?”  _ slipped out of his mouth. 

Peter opened an eye and peered in Tony’s direction. “Should we be concerned about that? The fact that I don’t need food?” 

“You’ve usually got the metabolism of an elephant. I definitely don’t think this is a good thing.” 

“What’s not a good thing?” 

Peter hopped up so quickly that Tony thought he was running to the sink to puke again. Turns out that it wasn’t a vomit scare; it was an Aunt May scare. She’d just walked out of the hallway and and was making her way to the coffeemaker. 

Peter looked like a deer in the headlights. Tony was going to have to take over this time. “Petey boy here is running out of clean clothes and refuses to let me buy him new ones. Wants to make a trip to Queens later today to grab some things from home.”

May looked a little confused when she saw the coffeemaker with no pot, then frowned when she realized it was in a dozen pieces on the floor in front of the sink. “Home? Today? Peter, are you sure you’re ready for that?” 

Tony didn’t mean to sound creepy, especially because Pepper can pretty much read his thoughts and would  _ know  _ if he was being creepy, but May looked good. Much better than she had in the last year. Even though Peter said she went to bed late, she was moving and talking and  _ glowing  _ like she’d slept for days. The dark circles Tony had seen deepening in hue beneath her eyes had faded drastically. The sun had just barely made its way above the horizon and May looked like she couldn’t have cared less. Maybe your son basically coming back from the dead had medicinal properties.

“I mean, I don’t know. But I think I’m gonna have to at some point. Better now than later, right?” 

May didn’t look so sure. “Peter, honey, I want you home more than anything.  _ God,  _ I’ve wanted you back in that apartment for months. I’m just afraid we’re taking big steps in a short amount of time. I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

“If anything, shouldn’t it have the opposite effect? It’s  _ home,  _ May. Why would it overwhelm me?” 

* * *

_ Getting  _ home overwhelmed Peter. 

Happy was “out of the office” for the day, and Mr.Stark refused to let anyone else drive him, so their only option was one of his several over-the-top sports cars. 

When Tony walked Peter and May down to the basement garage, he stood in front of his line of luxury vehicles like he’d just solved world peace. 

“Pick your poison,” he said with a grin, sweeping his hand down the row. 

May cleared her throat. “I think these may be a little flashy for us, Tony.” 

May was...Not wrong. There were nice cars all over New York, but Peter’s neighborhood didn’t have near as many as Mr.Stark’s. If they were trying to not attract attention to themselves, a Bentley wasn’t the way to go. 

Tony looked like he had no idea what May was talking about. “Even the G-Wagon? It’s last year’s model!” 

Peter offered a small smile. “Mr.Stark, while the cars are very nice, May’s right. Don’t we want to keep a low profile?” 

May nodded along like she knew the full extent of the situation. Like friends and acquaintances were the only people Peter was trying to avoid for the time being. She had no idea that the police thought he was Tony’s son, or that he may have killed a man (he knew he killed a man). The more Peter thought about the situation the more ridiculous it sounded. The police could easily check a city registry and realize Peter Stark didn’t exist. They could use face identification software and realize that he was not, in fact, Peter Stark, but Peter Parker, a missing minor. They would think Stark had taken him hostage or was hiding him from the authorities (which he was definitely doing). Hell, they might even realize Peter’s sorta-kinda dead and his heart beats about five times a minute and that he can physically pull darkness out of people but the people  _ die  _ when he pulls the darkness-

“Maybe we should just take the subway.” 

Tony looked like May had just slapped him across the face. “You’re kidding, right?” He looked to Peter. “This is a joke?” 

Peter shrugged. “It’s our best option. Might be an hour-long train ride, but it would definitely be low profile.” 

“No way. We’re not taking the subway.” 

“What do you expect us to do, Stark?” May asked. “Drop a helicopter on top of the apartment building and climb in through a window?” 

Tony snapped his fingers like a helicopter was the solution to all of his problems. “I can make that work.” 

“We’re  _ not  _ taking a helicopter, Tony. Train it is.” 

* * *

The familiarity of the subway was comforting. The hustle and bustle of the crowd entering and exiting, the sounds of shoes on grimy tile and the train screeching to a stop. Those random blasts of hot, putrid subway air that blew through the tunnels. Not entirely pleasant, but familiar. 

Even in jeans and a t-shirt, a very drastic wardrobe change for Tony Stark, he looked completely out of his element. His hands were shoved in his pockets, a pair of Ray-Bans carefully perched on his nose. He peered at the sign above the train platform while they waited. “How do we know this is the right train?” 

“Mr.Stark, you have a genius-level IQ and can’t read individual letters?” 

“I can read the sign, smartass. But are you sure we’re going the right way?” 

“Ye of little faith. I take this train at least once a week on the days Happy doesn’t drive me to the tower. It’s the right one.” Or, he  _ used  _ to take this train once a week. He hadn’t been on  _ any  _ train in a year. He was too busy chilling at the bottom of the Hudson River. If that’s really where he’d been the entire time. 

It was a hard concept to process, his own (temporary) demise. What had he done to end up where he did. To end up  _ how  _ he did, cold and pale and with a necklace of bruises? He’d tried looking into reflective surfaces as little as possible within the last day. The last thing he wanted to be reminded of was how someone had actually managed to pin him, metaphorically and physically. He’d been caught, restrained, potentially killed. Whether or not his current condition was death or life was lost on him. He was up and walking, though, so he had no complaints. As long as no one took his blood pressure, he seemed alive enough for the time being. Except for that silly little inability to eat or drink anything and his sudden lack of need for sleep or rest of any sort. Other than that, he was golden. 

May tugged on Peter’s sleeve to alert him of the train’s arrival, and the three of them shoved their way into the train car. Luckily it was an odd time of day and there was enough room for the entire group to sit side by side. Peter was very aware of the summer heat baking everyone in the subway car, but not because he himself was feeling it.  The woman near the front let out a deep sigh and tied her hair up so it would be off of her neck. The man by the door was in a suit and tie and sweating profusely. Peter watched as he loosened his tie and slipped his jacket off. The man must have felt him staring. They made accidental eye contact and Peter quickly looked away.

And, if Peter wasn’t mistaken, he could feel May and Tony’s body heat whenever the train rattled and their arms grazed his. They were so  _ warm.  _ Peter, in contrast, felt no discomfort despite the shitty subway air conditioning. He seemed to have no reaction toward or preference of temperature. 

By the time he finally jumped out of his own head he realized that Mr.Stark had fallen asleep, and May had popped her headphones in and was scrolling through news articles on her phone. Peter hadn’t thought to bring anything to entertain himself and he had no idea where his phone had ended up when he went missing, so his only real option was to try and grab a nap before they reached their destination. 

He knew he wouldn’t be falling asleep any time soon, but tilted his head back and shut his eyes regardless. Maybe if he feigned sleep hard enough he could trick himself into actually dozing off. 

Just maybe. 

* * *

Fisk’s men found Spider-Man in Hell’s Kitchen, just like Vanessa said they would. He’d taken an interest in that particular location for some reason. It was Wilson’s biggest operation hub within New York City. Either Spider-Man had been watching Fisk long enough to put those pieces together, or he sat down for a lovely dinner with Daredevil two or three times a week and came all the way from Queens to do so.

It hadn’t been easy catching him off guard. Honestly, Wilson figured Spider-Man’s capture was a complete accident. His men were skilled, some of the best available, but Spider-Man was powered and had fought people much more intimidating than some random guys with guns. 

The random guys with guns had been enough, though. Wilson watched the whole ordeal from inside the warehouse, thanks to a rather expensive security system set up outside. He was able to witness Spider-Man get the living hell beat out of him in 4kHD. Quite an experience. 

Once Spider-Man had been brought inside, restrained...He looked much smaller in person. Still lean, agile, but smaller. Hell, the man didn’t look like he broke 5 foot 10. His attitude had made up for it, though. Even as he was being restrained with metal wristlets and tranquilizers, he wouldn’t stop running his damn mouth. 

“You know I can pop out of these, right?” He shook his wrists within their steel cuffs. “Nice try, though. Valiant effort, men. Really.” The second he was brought into the warehouse, Fisk’s men had shoved him into a metal chair and injected him with a very,  _ very  _ high-dosed sedative. It had been several minutes since then and he showed no signs of fatigue.

“Then why don’t you?” Fisk heard one of his men ask. “Go ahead. Try. Even if you do manage to bust out, we’ll blow you to pieces before you get anywhere.” 

Fisk watched the computer monitor as several of his men stepped forward and trained their weapons on their captive. 

Spider-Man chuckled like he was calm as ever, but there was unease in his tone. Fisk had spent years identifying nervous men, men with something to lose. The hyper-straightness of Spider-Man’s posture as he sat in the chair wasn’t poise or confidence- it was fright. The way he kept opening and closing his hands like he was grabbing something; a nervous tick. He knew he was running out of options. 

Spider-Man craned his neck to look around the dark warehouse. “Nice little place you’ve got here. Very homey.” He wiggled in his seat. “This chair is  _ ridiculously  _ comfortable. You know, I think I saw something exactly like this at the Criminal Home Furnishings sale. Almost bought it myself, but took some measurements and realized it wouldn’t fit in my torture chamber back home. A shame, really. It would have matched my knife display so well-“ 

“ _ Shut the hell up!”  _ The man who’d threatened Spider-Man before stepped forward and launched the butt of his gun directly at the middle of Spidey’s face. Spidey saw the move coming and quickly threw himself sideways. The sound of the gun slamming into the metal headrest of the chair echoed throughout the room. 

“You know, I’m flattered, but my auntie taught me to never let anyone gun-punch me until the second date. We’re just getting to know one another, Random Henchman #1. We need to take things slow.” 

Spider-Man showed no signs of slowing down. “Give him another dose,” Wilson said into the com. “If that doesn’t work…” 

Wilson needed an alternate plan. A way to make Spider-Man compliant. But what did the public know about him, really? What were his personal weaknesses? His flaws? Aside from Daredevil Spider-Man was one of the more private heroes in the city. On the off-chance someone managed to get an interview out of him, he didn’t talk about himself or his life. Spider-Man was an enigma. Nobody knew his name, his face. 

_ Nobody knew his name or his face.  _

Spider-Man was never without his mask. He was notoriously careful about keeping every aspect of himself as private as possible. “Go for the mask. He won’t make it easy.” 

“Yes sir,” his lead man replied into his mic. He whistled to another warehouse worker. “Another dose! Make it a fat one! We gotta knock this son of a bitch down a notch!” 

Spider-Man reared his head back a little like he was shocked. “ _ Whoa,  _ okay, yeah, no thanks. I’m alright. But thank you for the generous offer! Sleep is always nice-“ 

The henchman came at him with another needle. Fisk was getting curious- as the man approached, Spidey was sitting statue-still, just staring forward with with the unsettling white eye slits of his mask. 

Something wasn’t right. He was too calm-

“Get back! He’s going to-“ 

Fisk didn’t even get to finish shouting his warning before his man with the syringe was webbed to the far wall of the warehouse. 

Spider-Man was laughing now, full-on belly laughs that shook him in his seat. He pulled a knee in toward his chest and clapped his hands together as he guffawed. This in itself was a concerning sight because only a few moments prior, Spider-Man had been pinned down by both ankles and wrists with steel bands. “This is fun! I haven’t gotten any good target practice in a while. Thanks for volunteering! Who’s next?” 

Ten men stormed forward, several with guns aimed and already firing off rounds. None hit the superhero, though, as he shot a web into the warehouse rafters and disappeared from sight. 

The speed with which Wilson threw his fist through the viewing monitor almost startled him. Sparks flew from mangled glass and torn wiring and a fuzzy, colorful mess of pixels fizzed on the other computer screens. Wilson calmly removed his hand from within the monitor and shook out his wrist. “I guess Vanessa was right. If I want anything done properly, I’ll have to do it myself.” 

* * *

May gently tapped Peter’s shoulder when they had to switch trains, and then again when they finally arrived in Queens. Mr.Stark acted like he’d been personally wronged when Peter kicked him in the shin and woke him from his nap. “I need the sleep, Peter. I didn’t get my morning cup of coffee. You know, because the pitcher shattered and the coffee spilled all over the floor-“ 

Peter coughed. “Yeah. I get it. Sorry. But it’s time to get off.” 

“Right.” 

As the three of them made their way down the sidewalk and toward Peter’s building, a twinge of iciness sparked in the back of his neck and made its way down his spine. Spidey Sense. He hadn’t felt it since coming out of the river. It wasn’t terribly strong this time; just a chill, no ringing in his ears or sirens in his head. But it was definitely there. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and spun in a slow circle, trying to identify the source of the danger. 

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A few people were looking at him with frowns because he was stationary in the middle of a busy walkway, but otherwise nothing was out of place. 

Until he noticed the man from the subway leaning against the side of a building a few meters away. The one in the suit. He had his jacket slung over his shoulder as if he were feigning nonchalance, a lit cigarette between his lips. His eyes were trained directly on Peter. 

“Pete? What’s wrong, buddy?” Mr.Stark and May had both stopped when Peter did, concerned looks on their faces. 

The man kept staring, looking Peter in the eye with zero remorse or fear. 

_ Of course he wouldn’t fear me _ , Peter reminded himself,  _ right now I’m pale as death and look like a random, scrawny, sixteen year old kid.  _

There was something familiar about the man in the suit. He wasn’t just fearless; that look behind his wide eyes and loose smile was the picture of satisfaction. He’d definitely just done something he was proud of.  Peter could identify that grin anywhere. It was a popular look among many of the criminals he’d ended up catching just after they robbed a bank or set something on fire. 

The light coolness of Peter’s Spidey Sense immediately turned to ice pick-like pain in the back of his skull. 

_ “Shut the hell up!”  _

Peter stumbled on the sidewalk. May caught him by the wrist. “Peter! Is something wrong?” 

_ “Another dose! Make it a fat one! We gotta knock this son of a bitch down a notch!”  _

Blues and greens and reds a particularly large splotch of white danced in front of Peter’s eyes. The bruises around his neck pulsed in rhythm with his thudding heart. 

“I’m-I’m okay-“ Peter pitched forward again. May and Mr.Stark barely grabbed him before his face made contact with the asphalt. 

“ _ This  _ is not what ‘okay’ looks like, kiddo.” 

It took Peter several seconds to right himself. “Was just dizzy for a second. I’m sorry. I’m fine.” 

The man was already gone by the time Peter could focus enough to check for him. The alarm in his head stopped chirping, but there was still a cold uncertainty seeping into his bones. It wasn’t his Spidey Sense; this was just good ol’ fight or flight. “Let’s just get to the apartment,” he said breathlessly. 

* * *

“No no no no no  _ no!  _ Seriously? Today of all days?” 

Ned Leeds had been digging through his backpack for almost five minutes and still couldn’t find his apartment key. He could have  _ sworn  _ he grabbed it off the hook this morning, but it wasn’t clipped to the hook in the front pocket where it always is-

He used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his forehead before it ran into his eyes. Most of the apartments in the building had their own AC units, but the hallways relied on central air. That central air was broken today, of course, and the hallway was quickly turning into a sauna. 

Ned had stayed the night on MJ’s couch, a setup that had become increasingly popular over the last year. Ever since their three-person friend group had suddenly shrunk to two. 

Her parents had decided they wanted to go to the grocery and had asked him to leave before they did. “It’s not that we don’t trust you,” MJ’s mom said, “because we do. I’d just feel like an irresponsible mother if I let Michelle stay home alone with a boy…”

Ned completely understood. He wasn’t offended. He just didn’t look forward to going home; he never did. Because every time he went home, he had to look across the hall and see the door to the apartment he knew held Peter’s room, a room that had been sitting empty for ages now. 

Peter went missing last June. So did Spider-Man. He stayed missing. 

He missed their entire junior year of high school. A few months into the year, all of Peter’s teachers stopped saying his name during roll call. 

Ned’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a message from his mom in response to the panicked “ _ I forgot my key again _ ” text he’d sent moments earlier. 

_ “I’m sorry, sweetheart, your father and I are out running errands. We didn’t think you’d be home until later. Maybe go ask May Parker if you can hang out there for a while? Until we’re back, at least?”  _

He’d been in the apartment since Peter went missing, but only a handful of times. Just to check in. To bring over whatever casserole his mother had made May this month. Him and May actually sat down and talked about Peter, once, but both of them were so emotionally raw afterward that it deterred them from ever doing it again. Now they just awkwardly (and sort of sadly) danced around one another, only exchanging short greetings when they ran into each other in the hall or got stuck in the elevator together. 

Ned’s hair was sticking to his forehead. The heat of the hallway was quickly becoming unbearable. 

“This is ridiculous.” The sleeves of his polo rolled and his backpack hanging precariously off of one shoulder, Ned stood with a grunt and took the few steps required to reach May’s front door. 

The elevator down the hall dinged open and three people stepped out. “Jesus, have these people heard of central air? This hallway feels like the devil’s-”

“Yeah, Tony, we get it. It’s hot.”

A kind tone underlined with a bit of attitude. That was May Parker walking down the hall. But the other two people, who were they? 

“Hi, Aunt May!” Ned waved and started walking in May’s direction. 

If Ned wasn’t mistaken, May looked  _ concerned  _ for a moment. The look was gone in seconds, though, and was replaced with a kind smile. “Hi, Ned. How’ve you been?” 

“I’m alright, thanks. I was wondering if maybe I could hang out with you for a few minutes? I’m locked out of my apartment and my parents aren’t home and it’s miserably hot in the hall-“ 

The two other people with May were slowly moving back toward the elevator. Ned was pretending not to notice, but it was hard when one of them was obviously  _ Tony freaking Stark,  _ and  _ Tong freaking Stark  _ had his hand firmly clasped around the bicep of someone who looked suspiciously young to be hanging out with two adults. His hood was pulled over his forehead and his face was angled toward the floor, but there was no doubt that he was nowhere close in age to May or Stark.

“I’m really sorry Ned, but now isn’t the best time."

The person under the hood cleared their throat and tugged on the cuffs of their sweatshirt. Ned’s heart dropped a bit; the way their fingers curled around the fabric was painfully close to what Peter used to do when he was nervous. Sometimes, if he wasn’t being careful, Peter would tear little holes in his sleeves from all of the fidgeting. It got even worse directly after the spider bite. He was still learning to control his strength and would always tug just a tad too hard. Ned once watched him unravel a sweater sleeve all the way up to his elbow. It was hysterical. 

“R-right. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“You’re never a bother, sweetie. Ever.”

He definitely  _ felt  _ like one. May was never one to turn down any of Peter’s friends, especially him. She always talked about how she liked Peter being around someone so well-rounded. May’s approval was, honestly, a small source of his pride. Being so quickly rebuffed by her was shocking. 

The hooded figure leaned past Tony Stark and tugged on May’s sleeve. They were angled so Ned couldn’t see their lips moving, but they must have said something that agitated May.

“This really isn’t the best time.”

May stopped and the person spoke again. 

“Seriously, I don’t think-”

They spoke once more, and May apparently hit her limit. 

“ _ Peter, that’s enough.” _

Ned’s stomach dropped to his toes. Stark looked like he was about to have an aneurysm right there in the middle of the hallway. 

May’s eyes were as wide as tea saucers. “I just messed up, didn’t I?”

“Get in the apartment. Now. You come too, Fred.” 

“It’s Ned…”

Stark pulled Ned and  _ Peter,  _ apparently, toward the Parkers’ door and waited impatiently while May dug through her purse for her keys. The second the door was open Stark threw everyone over the threshold and locked it behind him.

“Might as well lose the hood, kid.”

Ned’s sense of reality wavered the second the hood came down.  _ There he was. Peter.  _

_ Peter was missing. Probably dead. _

_ Apparently not. He’s standing on the doormat in his own apartment. _

_ Ned was in Peter’s apartment. _

_ And Peter was there too. _

_ Alive.  _

_ Was he, though? _

_ Was this just another one of the dreams? The dreams where Ned comes back from school, from the library, from the park, and Peter’s suddenly home? He’s home and alive and warm and okay and has that ridiculous, lopsided smile on his face? _

Peter was smiling. Maybe it was a smile. It almost looked like a grimace when you paired it with the pallor of his skin and the darkness beneath his eyes. The way his hoodie hung off of his shoulders. Although, maybe that was purely because of the hoodie’s size and not Peter’s weight. Ned had never seen that particular sweatshirt before; plain black and sort of expensive-looking. It must have been a loan from Stark.

_ Oh my god. Peter’s alive and standing in his apartment and he’s wearing Tony Stark’s clothes. _

Before he could stop himself, Ned stepped forward and grasped Peter’s shoulder. Gave it a good squeeze. Just to see if it was really him and not some sick hologram of his previously-missing-and-thought-to-be-dead best friend. Neither person spoke. Peter looked like he was a second away from bursting into tears, and Ned wasn’t far behind. 

“It’s really you?” Ned asked quietly. 

Peter nodded. “It’s really me.”

Ned didn’t think he’d ever hugged someone so tight. If Peter didn’t have his powers, Ned would have come close to bruising some ribs. 

“Where have you been, you stupid web-slinging idiot?”

Ned could feel the rumble in Peter’s chest when he laughed. “I missed you too, man.”


End file.
